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James Clarence Mangan 

His Selected Poems, 
with a Study 








Copyright, 1897, 
By Lamson, Wolfte, and Company. 

_</// rights reserved 

NortooolJ IDrraa 

J. S. CmhinK * Co. - Berwick * Smith 
Norwood Man. U.S.A. 

The Dedication 

Dear Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, the new Mangan begs 
to be yours, partly for the gratification of its editor, one 
of the many who revere you; much more for the sake of 
the poor poet who helped to endear your distinguished 
name when he saluted it, ffty years ago, as that of his 
kindest friend. IV hat the book has tried to be, you will 
know best. Far away, in your late southern sunshine, 
among distances, with the old clear-seeing mood ever upon 
you, may you read it gently ! 

Editor's Note 

MANY thanks are due the Reverend J. H. 
Gavin of S. Charles Seminary, Overbrook, 
Pennsylvania, for the loan of books, prints, 
and manuscripts, while this edition of Man- 
gan was in progress. For other favors, and 
much general furtherance, warm acknowledg- 
ments are tendered to the Reverend William 
Hayes Ward, D.D.; to Mr. Theodore Koch, 
Esq., of Cornell University Library; Mr. The- 
odor Guelich of Burlington, Iowa ; Messrs. 
Robert Waters of Linden, and Francis Nugent 
of Peabody, Massachusetts; Dr. J. J. Man- 
gan of Lynn; Mr. D. J. O'Donoghue; and 
Miss Dora Sigerson, now Mrs. Clement Shorter, 
who, besides, drew the portrait used as frontis- 
piece. Owing to the courteous permission of 
Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the Editor 
is able to reprint the Study, contributed some 
five years ago to The Atlantic Monthly^ and 
since greatly revised and enlarged. 

Auburndale, Massachusetts, January, 1897. 

Table of Contents 


James Clarence Mangan : a Study ... 3 


My Dark Rosaleen . . . . . I 1 5 

Prince Aldtrid's Itinerary through Ireland . . 118 

Kinkora . . . . . . . .121 

St. Patrick's Hymn before Tara . . . .123 

O'Daly's Keen for O'Neill 128 

The Fair Hills of Eire, O . . . . . 1 29 

The Geraldine's Daughter . . . . .131 

A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald i 33 
Ellen Ba\vn . . . . . . .135 

O'Hussey's Ode to The Maguire . . . .137 

A Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnell . 141 
A Love Song . . . . . . .150 

A Lullaby . . . . . . .152 

The Expedition and Death of King Dathy . .156 

The Woman of Three Cows . . . .159 

A Farewell to Patrick Sarsficld, Lord Lucan . . 162 



The Ruins of Donegal Castle . . . .166 

Sancta Opera Domini . . . . . .171 

Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan . . . . .173 

Welcome to the Prince . . . . .174 

The Song of Gladness . . . . .177 

The Dream of John Mac Donnell . . . .179 

The Sorrows of Innisfail . . . . .182 

Leather Away with the Wattle, O! . . .184 

Lament for Banba . . . . . .186 

The Dawning of the Day . . . . .188 

Dirge for The O' Sullivan Beare . . . .190 


The Maid of Orleans . . . . . .195 

The Fisherman . . . . . . .196 

Mignon's Song . . . . . . .197 

Nature More than Science . . . . .198 

The Dying Flower . . . . . .199 

Gone in the Wind . . . . . .202 

The Glaive Song ...... 205 

Alexander the Great and the Tree . . .210 

Strew the Way with Flowers . . . .213 

The Erl-King's Daughter . . . . .215 

The Grave, the Grave . . . . .218 

A Song . . . . . . . .219 

To Ludwig Uhland . . . . . .220 

The Poet's Consolation . . . . .221 

The Love- Adieu 222 



A Drinking-Song . . . . . .222 

Swabian Popular Song . . . . .223 

Holiness to the Lord . . . . . .225 

The Ride around the Parapet . . . .226 

My Home ....... 234 

The Fairies' Passage . . . . . .235 

The Last Words of Al-Hassan . . . .238 

And Then no More . . . . . .241 

Mother and Son ...... 242 

Two Sonnets from Filicaja ..... 244 

The Mariner's Bride ...... 245 

To Don Rodrigo ...... 247 

Dies Irae ........ 248 


/. Those purporting to be Translations from 
the Oriental Languages 

The Karamanian Exile . . . . .253 

The Wail and Warning of the Three Khalandeers . 256 
Relic of Prince Bayazeed ..... 260 

Advice against Travel ...... 260 

Adam's Oath . . . . . . .261 

Night is Nearing ...... 262 

To Mihri ........ 263 

The City of Truth ...... 264 

An Epitaph ....... 267 

Good Counsel ....... 268 

A Ghazel . 268 



The Time of the Roses . . . . .270 

The Time Ere the Roses were Blowing . . . 273 

To Amine, on seeing her About to veil her Mirror . 275 

The Howling Song of Al Mohara . . .275 

Sayings and Proverbs . . . . . .278 

Lament from the Farewell-book of Ahi . . .281 

Love . . . . . . . .282 

Trust not the World, nor Time . . . .283 

Relic of Servi . . . . . . .286 

Jealousy . . . . . . . .286 

The World: a Ghazel . . .288 
The Time of the Barmecides .... 289 

//. Pro Patria 
Irish National Hymn . . . . . .295 

An Invitation ....... 297 

Soul and Country ...... 299 

A Highway for Freedom . . . . .300 

To my Native Land . . . . . .302 

Hymn for Pentecost . . . . . .304 

///. Those on Miscellaneous Subjects 
Pompeii ........ 309 

Twenty Golden Years ago . . . . .311 

To Laura . . . . . . .313 

Sonnet . . . . . . . .316 

Curtain the Lamp . . . . .316 

The Dying Enthusiast . . . . .318 



To Joseph Brenan . ... 319 

Lines on the Death of C. II. . . . .321 

The World's Changes . . . . .323 

The Departure of Love . . . . . 3 26 

Bear Up . . . . . . . .326 

Two Sonnets to Caroline . . . . .328 

Enthusiasm . . . . . . .329 

The Lovely Land . . . . . -33 

Fronti Nulla Fides . . . . . .332 

Siberia . . . . . . . .332 

A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century . 334 

The Saw-mill . . . . . . -337 

The One Mystery . . . . . -339 

The Nameless One . . . . . .340 

NOTES by the Editor . . . . . .343 

James Clarence Mangan 
A Study 

A Study 

tf Noi siam "vermi 

Nati a format r angelica farfalla. " 

Purgatorio : Canto X. 


ON the principle that " it has become 
almost an honor not to be crowned," 
the name of James Clarence Mangan 
may be announced at once as very 
worthy, very distinguished. He is unknown 
outside his own non-academic fatherland, 
though he bids fair to be a proverb and a fire- 
side commonplace, much as the Polish poets 
are at home, within it. Belonging to an age 
which is nothing if not specific and depart- 
mental, he has somehow escaped the classifiers ; 
he has never been run through with a pin, 
nor have his wings been spread under glass in 
the museums. It was only yesterday that 
Mangan took rank in The Dictionary of National 
Biography, in Miles' Poets of the Century, and 
in a new edition of L\ra lUcgantiarum. In 
Allibone's Dictionary of Authors he has but 
hasty mention, and a representation as unjust 


as possible in H. F. Randolph's Fifty Tears 
of English Song. He is absent from the Ency- 
clopedia Eritannica. Even Mr. J. O'Kane 
Murray's obese volume, The Prose and Poetry 
of Ireland, has contrived to live without him. 
Palgrave, Dana, Duyckinck, and the score of 
lesser books which are kind to forgotten or in- 
frequent lyres, know him not ; Ward's English 
Poets has no inch of classic text to devote to 
him. Nor is Mangan's absence altogether or 
even chiefly due to editorial shortcomings. 
The search after him has always been difficult. 
During his lifetime he published only a collec- 
tion of translations, and his original numbers 
were left tangled up with other translations, 
by his own exasperating hand. A large mass 
of his work, good, bad, and indifferent, lay hid 
in old newspaper files, whence some of it has 
been injudiciously rescued by John McCall, a 
devoted fellow-countryman ; and what was, for 
a very long time, the only collection drawn 
from Mangan's store, bearing a New York 
imprint, and prefaced by John Mitchel's beau- 
tiful memoir, has never had a revised issue. 
In 1884, the Rev. C. P. Meehan brought out 
a small two-volume reprint of Mangan, better 
than Mitchel's, and with some freshly-discov- 
ered songs. The text in all these books is in 
an imperfect condition. Beyond them, Man- 


gan's work was not accessible in any form, until 
some of it was put into the Library series 
brought out by Mr. Duffy and Mr. McCarthy : 
cheap volumes, intended for the people. Man- 
gan is hardly yet a Book. So it is, and so, 
perhaps, it must be. Our time adjusts merit 
with supreme propriety, in setting up Herrick 
in the market-place, and in still reserving 
Daniel for a domestic adoration. Apollo has 
a class of might-have-beens whom he loves ; 
poets bred in melancholy places, under dis- 
abilities, with thwarted growth and thinned 
voices ; poets compounded of everything magi- 
cal and fair, like an elixir which is the outcome 
of knowledge and patience, and which wants in 
the end, even as common water would, the es- 
sence of immortality. The making of a name 
is too often like the making of a fortune : the 
more scrupulous contestants are 

" Delicate spirits, pushed away 
In the hot press of the noonday." 

Mangan's is such a memory, captive and over- 
borne. It may be unjust to lend him the 
epitaph of defeat, for he never strove at all. 
One can think of no other, in the long dis- 
astrous annals of English literature, cursed 
with so monotonous a misery, so much hope- 


lessness and stagnant grief. He had no public ; 
he was poor, infirm, homeless, loveless ; travel 
and adventure were cut off from him, and he 
had no minor risks to run ; the cruel necessities 
of labor sapped his dreams from a boy ; morbid 
fancies mastered him as the rider masters his 
horse ; the demon of opium, then the demon 
of alcohol, pulled him under, body and soul, 
despite a persistent and heart-breaking struggle, 
and he perished ignobly in his prime. 

We know nothing of his ancestry ; and can 
trace to none of its watersheds the stream of 
tendency in one so variously endowed. There 
are Mangins buried in the old Huguenot 
ground in Dublin, from whom Edward Man- 
gin, a writer of much charm, but unknown to 
fame (1772 1852), was descended. Was our 
poet possibly derived from the Manians, or 
clan of Hy-Many, descendants of Maine Mor, 
who was in the line of Cairbre Liffeachair, 
King of Ireland in the third century ? Or 
we may, with reason, conjecture that Mangan 
had some Norman blood ; for his features were 
of a decided Norman cast. He was born at 
number 3 Fishamble Street, the ancient Vicus 
Piscariorum of Dublin, on the first day of 
May, 1803. He was the eldest of four chil- 
dren, an early-dying family; his brother, the 
only one who survived him, was destined to fol- 


low him to the grave during the same month. 
The father belonged in Shanagolden, Limerick, 
and was a grocer in fair circumstances when his 
son was born. The house and shop were the 
property of the mother, Catherine Smith, a 
comely member of a respectable farmer's family 
near Dunsay, in the County Meath. The shop 
seems to have been soon resigned by the 
elder Mangan to a brother-in-law, whom he 
beguiled over from London ; and into the recep- 
tive hands of the new-comer he is said to have 
delivered his elder son, and all responsibility 
for him. James Mangan was a nervous, wilful, 
tyrannous person, of whom his little ones were 
afraid. He retired from his business on a com- 
petency, but ran through his new estate from 
excess of hospitality, made his small invest- 
ments which failed, and died prematurely of 
the superior disease of disillusion and vexation. 
The poet, in a posthumously published auto- 
biographical fragment, half-fanciful, half-literal, 
thus describes him, and exalts or debases him 
into a Celtic type: "His nature was truly 
noble; to quote a phrase of my friend O'Don- 
ovan, he ' never knew what it was to refuse the 
countenance of living man'; but in neglecting 
his own interests (and not the most selfish 
misanthropes could accuse him of attending 
too closely to those), he unfortunately forgot 


the injuries which he inflicted upon the inter- 
ests of others. He was of an ardent and for- 
ward-bounding disposition; and though deeply 
religious by nature, he hated the restraints of 
social life, and seemed to think that all feelings 
with regard to family connections, and the ob- 
ligations imposed by them, were beneath his 
notice. Me, my two brothers, and my sister, 
he treated habitually as a huntsman would treat 
refractory hounds. It was his boast, uttered 
in pure glee of heart, that we would run into 
a mousehole to shun him ! While my mother 
lived, he made her miserable; he led my only 
sister such a life that she was obliged to leave 
our house; he kept up a continual succession 
of hostilities with my brothers; and if he spared 
me more than others, it was, perhaps, because I 
displayed a greater contempt of life and every- 
thing connected with it. ... May God assoil 
his great and mistaken soul, and grant him 
eternal peace and forgiveness! But I have an 
inward feeling that to him I owe all my mis- 

Mangan's judgments were gentle. He was 
never heard to criticise nor blame any one but 
himself. Yet the experiences of his tragic in- 
fancy must have affected the fountain-springs 
of human feeling. Perhaps he remembered his 
own nameless antipathy, by contrast, when he 


came to render the wistful thought of a dead 
father in August Kuhn's lonely little wildwood 
boy : 

" I would rather 
Be with him than pulling roses." 

An odd moody child, he was sent to school 
in Swift's forlorn and formal natal neighbor- 
hood, in Derby Square, offWerburgh Street. 
There was a master there who had baptized 
him in Rosemary Lane Chapel, and who loved 
him; and from him he learned, among other 
things, the rudiments of Latin and French. 
But at thirteen or at fifteen (it is impossible to 
know which), he had to enter the bitter work- 
aday lists of the world, for the support of a 
family of steadily-sinking fortunes, who, once 
they found him productive of so many shillings 
a week, had no mercy for him, and preyed upon 
him like a nest of harpies. As early as 1817 
the talent within him was visibly astir, venting 
itself in the charades and whimsical rhymes 
proper to deservedly obscure Diaries and Al- 
manacs. But before he was sixteen, he had 
printed some noteworthy verses, with all of the 
faults, and some of the virtues, of his maturer 
work, and dark already with settled melancholy. 
This is a fine imaginative passage from the pen 
of a child : 


" A dream fell on me, fraught 

With many mingled images ascending 
Up from the depths of slumber : 

Gigantical, voluminous, inblending." 

For seven weary years he toiled at copying, 
from five in the morning, winter and summer, 
until eleven at night, through a boyhood which 
knew no vacations. Mangan shared this hard 
boyish experience with Samuel Richardson, 
bound out at thirteen as apprentice to a printer 
in Aldersgate, and undergoing for seven years 
an intolerable drudgery. He never uttered, 
then or after, Mangan's " lyric cry " of protest; 
perhaps because he knew that Pamela and her 
prose were conspiracy-proof, and not to be 
snuffed out in him. For three years succeed- 
ing, the young Mangan was an attorney's clerk, 
in close air and among vulgar associates, so tort- 
ured in every sentient fibre of his being that he 
affirmed nothing but a special Providence pre- 
served him from suicide. The circumstances of 
this slavery gnawed into his memory. Isolation 
of mind was his habit then as afterwards, and long 
walks at night were his sole relaxation. As he 
looked back upon the spectacle of his innocent 
and stricken youth, he was able to record the 
anguish at which the outer willingness was 
priced. " I would frequently inquire, though 


I scarcely acknowledged the inquiry to myself, 
how or why it was that I should be called 
upon to sacrifice the immortal for the mortal ; 
to give away irredeemably the Promethean fire 
within me, for the cooking of a beefsteak; to 
destroy and damn my own soul that I might 
preserve for a few miserable months or years 
the bodies of others. Often would I wander 
out into the fields, and groan to God for 

help: De profundis clamavi! was my continual 


These were the years when first he took 
comfort, five minutes at a time, in delightful 
study ; when from pure single-hearted passion 
he made himself an Oxford out of nothing, and 
won what is rightly called his "profound and 
curiously exquisite culture"; when toward the 
unlovely home, anon removed to Peter Street, 
and again to Chancery Lane, or the yet un- 
lovelier office, at 6 York Street, he would go 
softly reciting some sad verses of Ovid which 
had a charm for him at school, and keeping his 
mind alive with bookish reverie : a solitary 
young gold-haired figure, rapt and kind, upon 
whom no gladness ever broke, and who was 
alone in any crowd. His genius led him in- 
stinctively into scholastic ways. Mr. T. H. 
Wright, with equal truth and pathos, has thus 
sung of him : 


" Not with rude 

Untutored hand Apollo's lyre he smote, 
Tho' by the Furies oftentimes pursued 

In dull delirious flight thro' wastes remote." 

In the parlors of 2 Church Lane, College 
Green, he found his earliest encouragers; in- 
tellectual tipplers, like Tighe and Lawrence 
Bligh, stood ready to be Mangan's colleagues 
in worldly paths. A friend betrayed his confi- 
dence in some way, and helped him to a sick- 
ening foretaste of what his lot was to be. We 
have no reason to infer, however, that the blow 
was dealt to so trustful a heart by any of the 
radiant and erratic Comet Club, of which that 
interesting person, Samuel Lover, was then a 
member. Sometime between 1825 and 1835, 
Mangan had a calamity of the heart. Mitchel's 
too romantic statement, generally followed, is 
that Mangan's first love was given to a girl 
much " above him," according to our strange 
surveys ; that she encouraged his shy ap- 
proaches, and he was tremblingly happy ; that 
tor the pieasantest period of his life he was in 
frequent contact with those who made for him 
his fitting social environment ; and that at the 
moment when he feared nothing, he was scorn- 
fully "whistled down the wind." And the 
natural inference is that his harsh disappoint- 


ment warped the poet's life, and fastened on 
him his air of irremediable suffering. There is 
every reason why Mangan should have had a 
hard lot, and a heavy heart to carry, without 
being crossed in his affections. In Grant's 
Almanack for 1826, is a poem addressed to him, 
signed by his old friend Tighe, reproaching 
Mangan for " the dole that hath too long o'er- 
cast his soul." He was then twenty-three. 
It hardly follows that the event in question was 
already past. All adolescent thinkers, whether 
lovers or not, experience " dole." In the Octo- 
ber of 1832 died Catharine Hayes, of Re- 
hoboth (" the quaint old house with the Syrian 
name"), a young girl, almost a child, to whom 
he taught German. It has been said that this 
was she to whom he was engaged, that the 
breaking of the tie was an amicable affair of 
mutual heroism, and that the girl perished, 
shortly after, of consumption. Let us look 
into the poetic chronology ; for though Man- 
gan, orally, was a most uncomplaining person, 
he was not altogether reticent, upon paper. 
Elegiac Verses on the Early Death of a Beloved 
Friend first appeared in The Comet, on the tenth 
of February, 1833. They were unearthed and 
reprinted by John McCall. Beginning 

u I stood aloof; I dared not to behold," 


these tender lines were clearly written out of 
no vital destroying grief. Ten days later, and 
also in the columns of The Comet, appear from 
Mangan's pen Two Sonnets to Caroline, adorned 
later by bantering adjectives : Two Very Inter- 
esting Sonnets to Caroline. They are a-quiver 
with something : one knows not whether with 
strong feeling in the perfect tense, or with that 
dramatic semblance of strong feeling which 
Childe Harold had made easy to his contempo- 
raries. They are not love-poems. The curi- 
ous circumstance connected with them is that 
they figure anew in The Dublin University 
Magazine for January, 1839, as translations 
from Gellert ! and the elegy for C. H., with 
six stanzas eliminated, emerges, in the April 
number following, tagged "from the Irish"; 
and with a colophon in genuine Gaelic super- 
added. Furthermore, we have to consider a 
prose paper by " Clarence " in The Weekly 
Dublin Satirist^ dated October of 1833. It is 
called My Transformation ; the heroine is one 
Eleanor Campion ; a bitterly-conceived sketch, 
ending in burlesque, it affords minute descrip- 
tion of " life's fitful fever." Clearly, Mangan 
was in a very black Byronic mood indeed circa 
1832-3. Little Miss Hayes was in no wise 
responsible for it; but her dying coincided 
neatly with the a posteriori suspicions of his- 


toriographers. As we have seen, he reprinted 
these melodramatic compositions in 1839: a 
year when he recurred afresh to the pseudo- 
subjective vein. Amid the clumsy machinery 
of the dialogue Polyglot Anthology, Mangan 
produces some rather imprecatory stanzas To 
Laura, or, as afterwards amended, To Frances, 
beginning with a plagiarism from Burns: 

" The life of life is gone and over," 

which would seem to indicate that he stood in 
no awe of his victress ; nor does he fail to men- 
tion, with his usual mendacity and presence of 
mind, that the lyric reproach is taken from the 
Italian. Beautifully does it close : 

" Adieu ! for thee the heavens are bright, 
Bright flowers along thy pathway lie ; 
The bolts that strike, the winds that blight, 
Will pass thy bower of beauty by. 

" But when shall rest be mine ? Alas, 

When first the winter wind shall wave 
The pale wild flowers, the long dark grass, 
Above my unremembered grave." 

It has been taken for granted by some, since 
the version entitled To Frances is less inaccessi- 
ble than the other, that Frances was the true 
name of the cruel maid : a most unlikely do- 


duction. A recent writer, " R. M. S.," in The 
Catholic World for October, 1888, gives a 
thoughtful vote of accusation to one Frances 
Stacpoole. Stackpole, too, is the name inde- 
pendently rescued by Mr. W. B. Yeats from 
the reminiscences of an aged Anglican Arch- 
deacon. Says Miss Susan Gavan Duffy, in a 
private letter to the editor (1896) : " Margaret, 
not Frances Stacpoole, was the name of the 
lady beloved by Mangan ; and my Father says 
you are right in surmising that his blighted- 
love episode was not so overwhelming a grief 
as it has been represented to be ; for when it 
was all over and past, Mangan repeatedly took 
my Father to visit Margaret, and her mother 
and sister. Of course there is no doubt that 
the poet was a wrecked and broken-hearted 
man, though Margaret Stacpoole may be not in 
the least accountable for his misery." Charles 
Gavan Duffy had met Mangan, through Carle- 
ton the novelist, in 1836. During the very 
time, therefore, when the poet was still gladly 
visiting the gentlewomen who kept their kind- 
ness for him, he was putting together the 
highly-colored maledictions which could not 
possibly have represented his real feeling. 
That he was, in some sense, disillusioned, and 
thrown back upon himself, is sure. It is pite- 
ous that he had ever hoped for common domes- 


tic happiness : his fate could neither achieve it 
nor sustain it, for an hour. He was ineffably 
unhappy, and in his loneliness poured his un- 
happiness into verse. It would be unjust to 
call his attitude a pose ; for he was sincere. 
Yet lie must have expressed a little more than 
he felt, as did every poet of that melodramatic 
generation. And there is some evidence that 
he knew his lack of discipline. Stanzas Writ- 
ten in Midsummer (1839) ne rechristened as 
Stanzas Which Ought Not to Have Been Writ- 
ten in Midsummer. They are gruesome pict- 
ures of 

" an undeparting woe 
Beheld and shared by none : 
A canker-worm whose work is slow, 
And gnaws the heart-strings one by one, 
And drains the bosom's blood, till the last drop be 
gone ! " 

We must remember that a poet's despair can- 
not gracefully charge itself to dearth of beef, 
unpleasant kinsfolk, and headaches out of a 
morphine phial. Hence woman, and the love 
of woman, come in as the causa rerum^ irrespec- 
tive of proof, even with a Mangan. After his 
rebuff, he worked back into some show of 
moral courage and indifterentism ; and it is 
said that no fair face ever appealed to him 
again. Other, and more mocking faces, walked 


by his side ; for his ruin had begun, and the 
fatal friend of sin clung to him, when the 
white visions he adored had, one by one, with- 

Henceforth it is not so easy to track him ; 
he seems to have vanished into smoke. His 
bright hair blanched of a sudden during his 
first withdrawal from the upper world, and from 
the fire which burned his fingers. Whatever is 
known of him has been gathered only with 
extreme painstaking ; his personal history is 
quite as vague as if he had lived in a hermit's 
cell eight hundred years ago, when as yet the 
fine arts of spying and reporting were in the 
germ. Even to the men who saw him close 
at hand, he was a stranger. He passed 
through their company like the ghost of a 
seance, with Dryden's " down look," with 
soundless speech and gait ; whence and whither 
none could discover. Mangan was a loving 
student of the mediaeval alchemists, and he 
took for his own the black art of shooting 
out of darkness into a partial light, and van- 
ishing as soon. He would disappear for 
weeks and months at a time, and baffle search. 
It was evident that he mingled, meanwhile, 
with those who had snapped all links with 
human society. Nor is he the only poet in 
English letters over whose head the tides of 


despair rose and rolled, that he might so sink, 
and float, and sink again. We have not for- 
gotten Dr. Johnson's heartfelt lament over 
Richard Savage, who, not without an inner 
battle, retired occasionally into chaos, his pen- 
sion-money in his pocket. " On a bulk, in 
a cellar, or in a glass-house, among thieves and 
beggars," says that illustrious friend, " was to 
be found the author of The Wanderer^ the 
man of exalted sentiments, extensive views, 
and curious observation ; the man whose 
remarks on life might have assisted the states- 
man, whose ideas of virtue might have enlight- 
ened the moralist, whose eloquence might 
have influenced senates, and whose delicacy 
might have polished courts." Into such lowest 
deeps of partial insanity did Mangan also die, 
and out of them, ever and again, he was born, 
humble, active, clean of heart, by some repara- 
tive miracle, his eyes fixed (they, at least, 
never wavered) on eternal beauty and eternal 


It is plain on the face of things that he was 
going the dark way of the opium-eater. Yet 
this point has been greatly obscured. As early 
as 1833, Dr, Wall being the Librarian of 


Trinity College, Mangan, through the friendly 
offices of Dr. Todd, who had been attracted by 
the poet's verses, obtained employment for 
which he was fitted, and in an atmosphere 
which came as near as anything could, to mak- 
ing him happy. Trinity was then drawing up 
her vast new catalogues, and appreciated " the 
admirable scribe's " assiduity, until, alas, he 
forfeited her regard. At large among rare 
folios, Mangan copied for his living, and read 
for love ; losing himself, during the intervals 
for lunch or exercise, in Matthew Paris, and 
Calmet's Dissertatio in Musicam Veterum He- 
br<orum. Mitchel's Carlyle-like pen so paints 
him for us. "The present biographer being in 
the College Library, and having occasion for a 
book in that gloomy apartment called the 
Fagel Library, which is the innermost recess of 
the stately building, an acquaintance pointed 
out to me a man perched on the top of a lad- 
der, with the whispered information that the 
figure was Clarence Mangan. It was an un- 
earthly and ghostly figure, in a brown garment: 
the same garment, to all appearance, which 
lasted till the day of his death. The blanched 
hair was totally unkempt, the corpse-like feat- 
ures still as marble; a large book was in his 
arms, and all his soul was in the book. I had 
never heard of Clarence Mangan before, and 


knew not for what he was celebrated, whether 
as a magician, a poet, or a murderer: yet I took 
a volume and spread it on the table, not to 
read, but, with pretence of reading, to gaze on 
the spectral person upon the ladder." This 
striking description of a man who, it is strange 
to remember, was then only in his early thir- 
ties, is everywhere corroborated, even by those 
who did not see, as Mitchel did, what the de- 
scription implied. Mr. James T. Fields once 
wrote of his meeting with De Quincey : 
" When he came out to receive me, at his gar- 
den gate, I thought I had never seen anything 
so small and pale in the shape of a great man, 
nor a more impressive head on human shoul- 
ders. The unmistakable alabaster shine, which 
I had noticed in other opium-eaters, was on his 
face." Mangan, as reported by all who re- 
member him, as implicated (if one may use 
that word) in a pathetic posthumous portrait, 
done in black-and-white, had also " the unmis- 
takable alabaster-shine." All his fitful recluse 
habits pointed to the same cause. That he 
had gorgeous visions, his fixed eyes, " lustrously 
mild, beautifully blue," his strangely-colored 
poems, his rapt and reticent personality, were 
so many witnesses. Nor did he escape the 
penalties intertwined with stolen dreams. " The 
Gorgon's head," he wrote, " the triple-faced 


hell-dog, the handwriting on Belshazzar's pal- 
ace-wall, the fire-globe that burned below the 
feet of Pascal, are all bagatelles beside the 
phantasmagoria which evermore haunt my 
brain, and blast my eyes." Mangan is looked 
upon as a drunkard. To what is this singular 
misconception due ? To his own denial of his 
real folly, and to his complaint that William 
Carleton had circulated the statement that he 
(Mangan) was an opium-eater; and likewise to 
the denial of the Reverend Charles Meehan, 
who knew the poet well, who survived him 
until the spring of 1890, and had always a posi- 
tive statement or two to make, concerning him. 
Every one knows that the opium practice is 
never admitted by its victims ; secretiveness is 
its sign-manual. As to the second testimony, 
it is true so far as it goes. The kind priest 
never knew Mangan to touch the drug. But 
then, he knew him rather late. Said Dr. 
George Sigerson, F. R. U. I., in a recent lecture 
before the Irish Literary Society : "It has been 
stated, in a letter given to the public some 
months ago, that Mangan's writing was ex- 
tremely irregular and erratic, owing to his drink- 
ing habits. O'Daly also had said that the ver- 
sions of the Munster poets were often brought 
to him in different-colored inks, indicative of 
different hostelries or public-houses in which 


they were composed. Now the specimens here 
shown prove that Clarence Mangan wrote a clear, 
legible, elegant hand, manifest in his earliest and 
latest manuscripts. The writing in these ver- 
sions of the Munster poets was all in black ink. 
Very possibly, they were written in various 
public-houses, for Dublin offered little open 
hospitality, while there were no free libraries, 
and all the squares were closed. In Paris, and 
in London, many writers have used the coffee- 
houses. . . . Mangan's handwriting does not 
present the signs of one whose nervous system 
is shattered by alcohol." An American physi- 
cian, a great lover of Mangan, has come to the 
same conviction, by the process of pure induc- 
tion. He writes to the present editor (May 
17, 1896): "How vain it is to try to see in 
Mangan the fiery, sensual, besotted look of 
the alcoholic victim ! Opium, too, explains his 
strange manner of life to any medical mind, 
which alcohol certainly does not ; and I should 
dearly like to see him freed from the stigma of 
drunkenness, even though by so doing he had 
to take his unhappy place with Coleridge and 
De Ouincey." One other point has to be dis- 
posed of. In The Nameless One, Mangan de- 
plores his own fall into 

" The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns." 


The confession is most inaccurately phrased. 
It is by poetic license, indeed, that the conse- 
quences of other drugs are so visited, before 
all men, on the known scapegoat head of 
whiskey. But The Nameless One was written 
in 1842. By that time Mangan had learned 
intemperance. It is pathologically impossible 
that a man should be a drunkard and an 
opium-eater at the same time. The general 
testimony is that the very smallest quantity 
of spirits was sufficient to send Mangan on 
the road to madness. He could never have 
gratified an appetite for strong drink, did he 
possess it ; for his physical forces were ruined. 
He may have begun in his youth, on a few 
occasional grains of opium, with the intent to 
deaden the pangs of hunger and dejection. 
Such things have been. And he must have 
tasted of liquor in the end, as part and parcel 
of a resolve to break off at any cost from 
life-long slavery. Between De Quincey, who 
struggled successfully, and Coleridge, who 
struggled hardly at all, stands this lonely Irish 
poet, who struggled in vain. Sometime be- 
tween his twenty-eighth and his thirty-fifth 
year he stopped on his downward course, and 
entered on a new life. Feeble, but not over- 
borne, eager for any help, though it were full 
of danger, he fell presently on the neck of one 


evil, seeking deliverance from another. And 
whereas, in his former misery, he had cried out 
in no human ear, he began now to pour forth 
impotent plaints and promises, after the man- 
ner of dipsomaniacs. These are too painful 
to quote. One marvels how his patient and 
compassionate friends endured him at all ; and 
that they stood by him even while he evaded 
and disheartened them, proves that in Mangan, 
repentant for the moment, survived a spark 
of the immortal he was, some nameless divine 
quality which never forfeited reverence. Sigh- 
ing over him, they may have anticipated the 
mournful final verdict passed by Stevenson on 
Burns. " If he had been but strong enough 
to refrain, or bad enough to persevere in evil ! 
. . . there had been some possible road for him 
throughout this troublesome world ; but a man, 
alas, who is equally at the call of his worse and 
better instincts, stands among changing events 
without foundation or resource." It is the one 
atoning circumstance, in Mangan's favor, that 
though his attempt was a foregone defeat, it 
was a brave fight ; he broke himself to pieces 
in the effort to save his soul alive. His occa- 
sional regularity of living, and his deepening 
religiousness, show that some very powerful 
influence was at work within him. Is it a 
stretch of fancy to recur to Margaret Stac- 


poole ? She must have refused him prior to 
1837, and the refusal was perhaps conditional. 
It may well have been that she was the witness 
to his vow of reform ; and that afterwards, 
while he came and went with other literary 
men, in her mother's house, she was gazing 
through tears, in the pauses of his losing bat- 
tle, on her poor shattered knight. At any 
rate, the supposition harmonizes with what we 
know of his restless, ever-remorseful, light-ador- 
ing, and " gloom-o'erdarkened " spirit. Had 
his passion indeed ended in the short pang 
of a rude dismissal, as some of his biographers 
contend, it would have left him more of a man. 
A hope of marriage, " subdued and cherished 
long," eclipsed a thousand times by horrible 
folly and weakness, and flickering on in con- 
valescent dreams, would be the explanation 
both of much of Mangan's poetry, and of the 
moral turmoil of all his latter years. Love 
the saviour was not strong enough to save 
him. The men who guessed nothing of his 
true heart-history, and who saw him often and 
near enough to connect his squalor and de- 
spair with a mere common dissipation, were 
natural contradictors of that earlier allegation, 
Carleton's or another's, concerning opium. 
Still less did they disentangle the thing Clar- 
ence Mangan was, from the things he kept on 


doing. In the sight of the All Wise, he must 
have approximated not to the suicide, but to 
the martyr. 

He is no subject for biography. Paul Ver- 
laine is his only parallel, were it not that 
Mangan had no such intense moods of reli- 


gious mysticism, and none of bestiality. " No 
purer and more benignant spirit," it is John 
Mitchel, again, who speaks, " ever alighted upon 
earth ; no more abandoned wretch ever found 
earth a purgatory and a hell. There were, as 1 
have said, two Mangans : one well-known to 
the Muses, the other to the police ; one soared 
through the empyrean and sought the stars, 
the other lay too often in the gutters of Peter 
Street and Bride Street. ... In his deadly 
struggle with the cold world he wore no defi- 
ant air and attitude ; was always humble, affec- 
tionate, almost prayerful. He was never of 
the Satanic school, never devoted mankind to 
the infernal gods, nor cursed the sun." Giv- 
ing what he could, and asking nothing, genial 
and gentle to all that lived, he did not lack 
affection. In his penury, his eccentric habits, 
his irresponsibilities, he found a distinguished 
and devoted few to replace his mistaken circle 
of Church Lane wits : Mr. George Petrie, 
Dr. Todd, and Dr. Anster, the translator of 
Faust ; the Reverend John Kenyon of Temple- 


derry, Dr. Gilbert, and especially Charles 
Gavan Duffy. The Nation paid Mangan in 
advance for the copy he too often forgot to 
supply ; he had a haven in Trinity Library, 
and another in the Ordnance Survey Office, 
where he was at peace awhile among topog- 
raphers and antiquaries, generally the happi- 
est-tempered of men. He might have lived 
with those who would have appreciated and 
protected him, but he, for reasons, was too 
shy and too proud. It pleased him better to 
sit in the liberty of a garret by William, his in- 
valid brother, sipping tar-water, and, with his 
delicate smile, watching the other's consump- 
tion of the single egg, which was all Apollo's 
vassal could afford to buy him for a certain 
Christmas dinner ; or to move from lodging 
to lodging, with his hand-bag and his " large, 
malformed umbrella," devising how he could 
redeem his manuscripts, and his Berldeian 
tar-water, too, left in pawn for the ante- 
penultimate rent. The poor gifted creature 
was driven more than once to private beggary. 
We read oi him, at another time, as residing in 
a hay-loft, and eloquently expostulating with 
the landlady, a person with a syllogistic eye to 
conflagrations, because she would allow him no 
candle to write by ! Nothing very definite ever 
happened to him. Always suffering, always 


absent-minded and a prey to accidents, he was 
no stranger to hospitals, and cheerfully as- 
serted that his intellect cleared the moment 
he entered the ward. Lonely, weak, harassed, 
scorning precautions, on the ground that there 
is no contagion "but thinking makes it so," 
clinging with foolhardy calm to his Bride 
Street dwelling during the great cholera epi- 
demic, Mangan perished; suddenly and quietly, 
as the shutting of a glow-worm's little lamp, on 
the twentieth of June, 1849, ms ^ e went ut: > at 
the Meath Hospital, Long Lane, whither he had 
been removed. He was buried in Glasnevin. 
Three persons are said to have followed his body 
to the grave. One of these was the Reverend 
Charles Meehan. The tardily-raised headstone 
was placed by Mangan's uncle, Mr. Smith. 

From Mr. Hercules Ellis we have some 
distressing details of our poet's last days. " For 
twenty years," he says in a sympathetic preface 
to his book, The Ballads and Romances of Ire- 
land^ " Mangan labored assiduously in his art, 
gladly accepting for his works payment lower 
than that given to the humblest menial; and 
the return for this devotion of his noble genius 
to the noblest purposes was a life of privation 
and wretchedness, and an early death caused by 
want, and cold, and hunger, and nakedness, and 
every kind of misery." 


He goes on to say that, on taking up one of 
the Dublin newspapers, he was much startled 
by the announcement of the death of Man- 
gan, of whom he had ever been a warm ad- 
mirer, though a stranger ; and that he reached 
the Meath Hospital in time to see his body 
before burial, " wrapped in a winding-sheet, 
wasted to a skeleton." From the house-sur- 
geon he learned that Mangan, alone and ill, in 
a wretched room, had been discovered by the 
officers of the Board of Health, and removed, 
as a probable victim of the cholera, to the 
North Union sheds. But the attendant phy- 
sician recognized him, and found him not 
infected, but merely starved. " He was im- 
mediately transmitted to the Meath Hospital, 
where everything that skill and kindness could 
suggest for the purpose of reviving the expir- 
ing spark of life was attempted, and attempted 
in vain. The unfortunate child of genius sank 
hourly, and died shortly after his admission, 
exhibiting, to the last, his gentle nature, in re- 
peated apologies for the trouble he gave, and 
constant thanks for the attentions and assist- 
ance afforded him. In his pocket was found a 
volume of German poetry, ... in his hat were 
found loose papers. Laboring to the last in 
his noble art, striving to obtain a morsel of bread 
by the production of the finest compositions, 


. . . poor Clarence Mangan died ; an honor 
to his country by his writings, a disgrace to it 
by his miserable fate." 

Father C. P. Meehan, whose kind voice, 
reciting, by request, the Penitential Psalms, was 
the last sound Mangan heard on earth, also 
testified, on being questioned many years after, 
that Mangan died, not from cholera, but from 
" exposure and exhaustion." Unattended for 
the moment, it seems that he arose, and got 
out upon the street, and in his great weakness 
fell into a pit dug for a house-foundation, and 
lay there awhile before being rediscovered. 
Mr. Ellis's account was thought to be sensa- 
tional when it was published. But there is a 
grave fear that it was the truth. The condi- 
tions, not of one mishap or one moment, which 
killed Mangan, were those which have visited 
poets from the earth's beginning, those which 
the comfortable world, well-clad, well-dined, 
with its feet on the fender, finds it hard to be- 
lieve in at all. Whatever nominal and visible 
cause appeared to end him, amid the terror and 
contusion of the great cholera outbreak, we may 
set him down as a victim, foredoomed from his 

"who on the milk of Paradise 
Should have been fed, and swam in more heartsease 
Than there are waters in the Sestian seas." 


To the tragic testimony of those who stood at 
Mangan's bedside, may be added an extract from 
a letter of Miss Jane Barlow to Mrs. Hinkson 
(Katharine Tynan), since permission has been 
accorded to quote it here. " The other day I 
went to see Miss Margaret Stokes, whose ac- 
quaintance I made lately. She was talking about 
Clarence Mangan, whose friend her father was, 
as no doubt you know. In fact, he was his 
last friend. For Mangan had been lost sight 

O O 

of by everybody for a very long time, when, 
one morning, as Dr. Stokes was going his 
rounds in the Meath Hospital, the porter told 
him that admission was asked for a miserable- 
looking poor man at the door. He was 
shocked to find that this was Mangan, who 
said to him : ' You are the first who has 
spoken one kind word to me, for many years ' : 
a terrible saying ! Dr. Stokes got him a pri- 
vate room, and had everything possible done 
for him ; but not many days after, he died in 
Dr. Stokes's arms. Immediately after death, 
such a wonderful change came over the face 
that Dr. Stokes hurried away to Sir Frederick 
Burton, the artist, and said to him : ' Clarence 
Mangan is lying dead at the Hospital. I want 
you to come and look at him ; for you never 
saw anything so beautiful in your life ! So Sir 
Frederick came, and made the sketch which is 


now in the National Gallery. I daresay you 
have heard all this before." Mr. F. W. Bur- 
ton, as the painter then was, hurriedly drew 
the pallid head as it lay back on the pillow, 
old and weary with its forty-six insupport- 
able years : hurriedly, because there was some 
groundless fear of infection ; and from this first 
small sketch, he made the very touching and 
striking picture, which Miss Barlow mentions 
as among the treasures of the Irish National 
Gallery on Leinster Lawn in Dublin. The 
original seems to have passed into Father 
Meehan's hands ; and by him was given to its 
present possessor, the Reverend J. H. Gavin of 
S. Charles Seminary, Overbrook, Pennsylvania. 
The larger and more perfect head was beauti- 
fully reproduced in Irish Love Songs, published 
by Mr. Fisher Unwin in 1894. There is no 
truer relic of its class, in the history of English 
letters ; not even among death-masks. And 
it recalls to mind, would one seek its fellow, 
Severn's heart-breaking little drawing of the 
dying Keats. A sad redoubled value attaches 
itself to this memorial of Mangan, when it is 
remembered that it was his only portrait. He 
was too secluded and indifferent to wish his 
features perpetuated, too little famous to attract 
artists, too poor to pay them. We have to 
thank Dr. Stokes and Sir Frederick Burton 


alone for the broken reflection of his already 
vanished spirit. From this famous vignette 
some half dozen copies have been made ; or, 
rather, basing themselves upon it, these have 
endeavored to represent the poet as he lived, 
with no marked technical success, and all, save 
one, with a significant misconception. Mr. 
D. J. O'Donoghue, the best authority on 
everything pertaining to Mangan, says of these 
attempts : " They are not like him. As they 
are all deductions, as it were, from the Burton 
in the National Gallery, they make a curious 
mistake in assuming that Mangan habitually 
showed his fine forehead. It was only when 
he lay dead, with head unsupported, that his 
forehead was properly seen ; for his long hair, 
which usually fell over it, had then fallen back." 
This just criticism cannot be extended to the 
sensitively-pencilled sketch by Dora Sigerson 
(Mrs. Shorter), which has the tangled locks 
shadowing the brow, and the studious stoop of 
Haydon's Wordsworth. 

u This is the poet and his poetry." 


In The Nameless One Mangan lends us an in- 
cidental glimpse of two forerunners to whom 
he was attached. The mention of Maginn has 


historic interest ; for he exercised on Mangan's 
genius a pronounced, though superficial influ- 
ence. It seems ironic to recall to the present 
generation of readers the Sir Morgan Odoherty 
of BlackwootPs, the star of Fraser s and the 
Noctes, now cinis et manes et fabula, the joy- 
ous, the learned, the amazing William Maginn, 
LL.D., who, because he reaped a temporal re- 
ward as the most magazinable of men, has all 
but perished from the heaven of remembered 
literature. The coupling of his name with that 
of Burns was, at the given date, obvious. It is 
not likely that Mangan would have spoken of 
the ultimate blight of Maginn's great powers 
while he lived ; and the reference in the poem 
itself to the age of the author, would tend to fix 
its composition in the year of Maginn's death, 
1842. Profound feeling, as of a personal loss, 
premonition, as if called forth by the fate of 
one familiarly known, hang over these rushing 
strophes, written as they are in the third person. 
It is clear that Mangan had an enthusiasm for 
Maginn, hitherto unnoted. His commentary 
in the Antkologia Germanica, in the Litters Ori- 
entates, and in all the imitative raillery of his 
Dublin University Magazine work, with its offi- 
cious instructive foot-notes, testifies how genu- 
ine it was. And the midsummer news from 
Walton-on-Thames, which struck home to 


many who loved wit, and who grieved for 
might put to no immortal use, hurt also the 
quiet clerkly figure on the library ladders of 
Trinity, and added a pang to his opinion of 
himself. Maginn's is the only influence except, 
longissimo intervallo Hunt's and Lamb's, 
discernible in Mangan's prose. As for some 
of his early poetry, it is on Coleridge's head. 
The Betrothed, beginning 

" A silence reigns in Venice streets," 

has the tone and the motion of Christabel. 
Mangan assimilated later a note of the "paus- 
ing harp" of 1797. We are told of the knight 
who won "the bright and beauteous Genevieve" 
that so soon as the story faltered on his lips, he 

"Disturbed her soul with pity." 

" The song of the tree that the saw sawed 
through," says Mangan, after Coleridge, 

"Disturbed my spirit with pity, 
Began to subdue 
My spirit with tcnderest pity." 

And there is a palpable echo of two famous 
lines of Shelley, imported into Mangan's ver- 
sion of Schiller's Bis an des Atbers bleicbste 
Sterne : 


"Fancy bore him to the palest star 
Pinnacled in the lofty ether dim," 

and a reminiscence of The Sensitive Plant, in a 
mention of the darnel and the mandrake as 
being unfit sister-growths for 

u the proud, 
The hundred-leafed rose." 

" Lampless " is a favorite word with Mangan, 
who had admired it, no doubt, in Epipsychidion. 
But the man who most powerfully swayed 
his budding art was not any of these. It seems 
hardly necessary to state that it was Lord Byron, 
Byron who once bestrode all young minds, 

" As a god strong, 
And as a god free." 

There is nothing more broadly Byronic in the 
magnific wails of that generation than a certain 
production of our poet in The Dublin Satirist 
of the fifth of December, 1835. ^ ^ s am using 
to note that the original author's name is given 
as Johann Theodor Drechsler, one of Mangan's 
numerous sawdust dollies. He outgrew this 
influence, as he did every other. In his noble 
Pompeii, lingers the last tone caught from the 
Childe, already merging into something unlike 
itselt. The Hymn for Pentecost, in The Irish 


Tribune for the eighth of July, 1 848, is modelled 
naturally on Schiller's and Byron's lines. It is 
a paean of the year of revolution ; a plea that 
Innisfail might not swoon on, while all Europe 
was awakening from 

"The nightmare sleep of nations beneath Kings." 

Mangan had some theoretical knowledge of 
painting and of music. Though the practical 
sciences had small attraction for him, in psychic 
experimentalists, from Paracelsus to Lavater, he 
took deep interest. For the pages of Sweden- 
borg he had lasting love. It is said of him 
that even as a boy, his reading could not be 
prescribed for him. He was a freebooter stu- 
dent, in spirituals and temporals. Of whatever 
other comfort he was bereft, he had fabulous 
revenues in his taste for the best books. 
Browsing habitually among the stalls of the 
Four Courts, when he could not command a 
library, Mangan grew intimate with the fathers 
of English literature. It is curious that he 
would not, or could not, appreciate the great- 
ness of Burke. His choice of contemporaries 
was fallible. He cried up Godwin's -St. Leon, 
and its author's " forty-quill power," and ap- 
proved of Contarini Fleming,, while the glorious 
If aver leys left him cold. He admired (may he 


be forgiven for these vagaries !) Mr. Rogers, 
and he did not spare jibes to so good a man 
as Mr. Southey. On the other hand, we find 
him quoting Balzac, Charles Lamb, and the 
young Tennyson, and affectionately addressing 
a friend who sought to uplift him as 

" Thou endowed with all of Shelley's soul," 

at a time when " Shelley's soul " was still rated 
below par by the sagacious world which had 
not known him. Mangan thought, however, 
that there was " a cloud on Shelley's character." 
It is pleasant to think of the small blonde sprite 
of 1811 tripping in and out of the Derby 
Square school, who may have looked more 
than once, unawares, on Shelley's boyish self 
as he went crusading with Harriet through the 
streets. For whatever Mangan saw or heard, 
it was from his own contracted orbit at home. 
He was acquainted with his Dublin 

"As the tanned galley-slave is with his oar," 

and it is doubtful if he were ever out of it, 
except on a dull six weeks' visit to his uncle's 
farm in Kiltale. Mangan says, however, that 
he found his "Saw-mill" in Rye Valley, Leix- 
lip; and he dated some Italian translations 
from Liverpool, having apparently induced 


Pegasus to ford the Irish Sea for the occasion. 
Certain Italian poets were all his life very dear 
to him, Petrarca and Filicaja, and Metastasio 
in particular. 


Deep as was Mangan's hope for the welfare 
of all humanity, he could not be accredited 
with anything so specific as a political opinion, 
even in the seething times of O'Connell, till he 
proved, when the crisis came, that his heart 
was with the Young Ireland party. In that 
season of great intellectual enthusiasm, it was 
natural that an impressionable mind like his 
should be swept into the wake of Davis, Duffy, 
Dillon, O'Hagan, Dalton Williams, Pigot, 
D'Arcy M'Gee, Meagher, and Mitchel. But 
while the eyes of these men were fixed on their 
far-off common ideal, the eyes of Mangan were 
fixed only upon them. They had been kind to 
him ; his soul was sensitively grateful ; and he 
made their convictions his by an act of faith in 
all he knew of 

"that bright band 
That on the steady breeze of Honor sailed." 

Two among them have written of their uncer- 
tainty, lasting for years, regarding their con- 
tributor's political feeling ; and they were very 


careful not to involve his name in their own 
hopes and perils. We are happy to think of 
him posing as a rebel and a reformer, although 
he counts for so little, and looks so oddly mis- 
placed. He dedicated to his country a great 
deal of middling verse ; he meant to conse- 
crate to her new-born aspiration the energies in 
him which yet survived. Carried away by the 
warmth of personal allegiance, Mangan offered 
to become a member of the Irish Confedera- 
tion, and, later, to follow John Mitchel to 
prosecution and exile : measures from which 
his wise leaders, as gentlemen endowed with 
humor, very gently dissuaded him. Towards 
1842, he became touchingly altruistic. He 
even endeavored to give the benefit of his 
interest and criticisms to that incomparably 
well-edited paper, The Nation. Whatever he 
could get, in the way of blocked out transla- 
tions from the Gaelic, he took, with eagerness, 
for his poetic purposes, and obtained, during 
his last year or two of life, considerable insight 
into his ancestral tongue. Such an ardor, 
whether or no its results can be called success- 
ful, had, in one apart from the common con- 
cerns of men, a distinctive moral beauty. So 
Thoreau, wedded to growing leaves and the 
golden hues ofr a squirrel's eye, stood forth 
From his happy woods, and spoke promptly and 


aloud, in the ear of scandalized New England, 
for John Brown. 

Like all Irishmen, Mangan was by nature 
something of a commentator on public affairs. 
Many were the squibs and epigrams from his 
boyish pen ; and in The Belfast Vindicator he 
had all the fun he could out of the eternal 
English misrule. His highest powers, how- 
ever, refused to be pressed into service, as the 
angelic standard-bearers of a cause. Instead of 
singing The Nation s First Number (one knows 
not what he could have done, with such a low- 
flying materialistic title as that !), he heartily 
shouted it. The Irish National Hymn has 
emotion and dignity ; A Highway for Freedom 
is a good song of its kind. But there are a 
dozen kindred themes from Mangan's pen which 
nobody of frail endurance would wish to read 
twice. There is opulent speechifying, but little 
poetry, in The Warning Voice , The Peal of Another 
Trumpet (with its motto " Irlande, Irlande^ r'c- 
jouis-toi" from the prophecies of Mademoiselle 
Lenormand), and in the one strain typical of all, 
The Voice of Encouragement : A New Year s Lay. 
The last begins oratorically enough : 

Youths, compatriots, friends, men for the time that is 

nearing ! 
Spirits appointed by Heaven to front the storm and 

the trouble ! 


You who in seasons of peril, unfaltering still and 

Calmly have held on your course, the course of the 

just and the noble, 
You, young men ! would a man unworthy to rank in 

your number, 
Yet with a heart that bleeds for his country's wrongs 

and affliction, 
Fain raise a voice too in song, albeit his music and 

Rather be fitted, alas, to lull to, than startle from 


It closes with a lofty abstract image, worthy of 
Mangan, and of the spirit of Young Ireland. 

Omenful, arched with gloom, and laden with many a 


Many a portent of woe, looms the impending era ; 
Not as of old by comet-sword, gorgon, or ghastly 

Scarcely by lightning and thunder, Heaven to-day 

sends its message. 

Into the secret heart, down thro' the caves of the spirit, 
Pierces the silent shaft, sinks the invisible token : 
Cloaked in the hall the envoy stands, his mission 

While the pale banquetless guests await in trembling 

to hear it. 

Nevertheless, Young Ireland must have found 
him a most useless person. His known gen- 


ius and admired achievements floated him over 
these years of profound stress, when he pro- 
duced next to nothing of any worth ; and when 
his always gently-remote bearing must have 
had the value of an anachronism. Fortunately, 
there were those near at hand to supplant him, 
the instant he failed. It is not from Mangan 
that we have Who Fears to Speak of 'Ninety-Right ', 
and The Rapparees. Best of all, there was 
Thomas Osborne Davis, a patrician tribune, a 
most lovable and very perfect character, who 
made rhymes only as a means to an end, yet 
out-reached any rival whomsoever in that 
direction, as in others. With such splendid 
popular ballads of his as Fontenoy, The Sack of 
Baltimore ', Given Roe, O' Erien of Ara^ nothing 
of Mangan (least of all The Siege of Maynooth) 
can compete. Besides, unlike Davis, or his 
nearest followers, clear-headed young enthu- 
siasts of culture and breeding, Clarence Man- 
gan had no very definite idea of what was the 
desirable thing to say. While in aiming at the 
Repeal of the Act of Union, they were con- 
tent to arouse a manly spirit in the long- 
oppressed peasantry, by dwelling on the 
antique glories of the isle and the names of 
her romantic heroes, nothing would serve 

7 O 

Mangan, the one anointed poet among them, 
but prophecy, calamitous preaching, and the 


most prosy insistence on concrete agitation. 
Worse yet, he was inconsistent : his theories 
veered and wobbled. He begets generalities 
Continental in application : 

March forth, Eighteen Forty-Nine ! 

Yet not as marched thy predecessor 

With flashing glaive, and cannon-peal : 

Of no law, human or divine, 

Shalt thou be, even in thought, transgressor. 

Strike with amaze, but not with steel ! 

Blood enough has flowed, Heaven knows, 

Even at freedom's holy shrine ; 

Not by blowings-up, or blows, 

Shall conquer Eighteen Forty-Nine. 

And again, in Consolation and Counsel: 

" ' Knowledge is power,' not powder. That man 


A blow for Ireland worth a hundred guns 
Who trains one reasoner. Smash your heads of 

And form the heads of men, my sons." 

Will it do to compare such approved utter- 
ances with 

u Your swords, your guns, alone can give 
To Freedom's course a highway " ? 

Surely, no more drastic urging ever came from 
Mangan's colleague, the young Speranza 


(Miss Elgee, afterwards Lady Wilde), in the 
famous Jacta Alea Esf. Whether the mood of 
patience, or that of indignation, at given times, 
were best for Ireland, is a question apart; 
what is certain, is that the man who would 
encourage her simultaneously in both, cancels 
his value as a public personage, and may well, 
on the whole, "go back to his gallipots." 

It is simple truth to say that Mangan's was 
a non-conducting mind, up to his very last 
years. He was " in the sea of life enisled," 
unwitting of the passions of the human kind. 
This loneliness of his, this dream-meshed with- 
drawal, may not have been altogether a con- 
genital condition ; for indifferentism is a sure 
after-growth of the opium garden. Yet he 
was a born unit. He inhabited a Bagdad of 
his own, melancholy and fantastic, and with no 
gates opening on the world of action. No close 
observer of his earlier life and writing can find 
in them definite patriotic or religious ardor, or 
ardor of any sort except the literary. Had 
Mangan held deep-seated faiths, they could 
hardly have been in accord, at any rate, with 
those of The Dublin University Magazine, dur- 
ing the years he devoted to its enrichment. 
That able periodical reeked with the bigotry, 
arrogance, cruelty, and spite of the dominant 
social element in the Dublin of sixty years ago. 


It was to end such a spirit of faction, i.e., de- 
nationalization, that Young Ireland (" Protes- 
tant, Catholic, Dissenter: quis separabit ? ") 
arose. It endeavored to wake the people 
from an enchanted sleep, in the great name of 
Justice. It woke Mangan, among others : he 
put himself forth, in loyal and honorable 
energy, as an Irishman. He had all manner 
of new prospects to befit his new character ; 
for he proposed to devote himself, " almost 
exclusively," to the service of his country. 
Hence much lamentable prosody : the active 
poet's meat is the contemplative poet's poison. 
His translations continued to be, in varying 
degrees, effective ; his original verse became, 
for the most part, monstrous flat and foggy. 
He belonged in a cell of his own ; it was an 
artistic error ever to have left it. Yet in leav- 
ing it he proved, however feebly, that in his 
outworn consciousness was the manly spark, 
albeit he could not, out of his accustomed 
vaporous abstraction, speak, in the crowd, the 
efficacious word. He had been too long a 
recluse, a bookworm, and a leaf in the wind. 
Poor Mangan, impotently moralizing towards 
the last, is not the idler 

" full of health and heart 
Upon the foamy Bosphorus ; " 


but who that loves liberty as well as he loves 
lyric worth, can be loath to honor him for the 
fruitless change ? It has been remarked con- 
cerning Mangan, that though full of personal 
hopelessness, he was a political optimist. " He 
always dreamed, mystically enough, after the 
modern fashion, of a new era just about to 
dawn upon the world, and of the regeneration 
of mankind." (And he is a most compensatory 
singer : " what though," is his ever-recurrent 
word.) Hungary failed in 1848, Sicily failed, 
Ireland failed. But there was much healthful 
havoc. With the final thunder of disparting 
thrones, dear to Mangan's remote ear, he 
himself was fated to pass, unconsummated. 

Mangan, like Cowley> like Southey and 
Coleridge, like our friend Goldsmith, between 
his call on the Bishop (in fatal scarlet breeches) 
and his attacks on medicine and the law, had a 
yearning for what he is pleased to call 

"The daedal Amazon, 
And the glorious O'hi-o;" 

and, like Byron, he pays a lofty compliment 
to "the single soul of Washington" ; but the 

O D 


possibility of his actually taking passage to 
Washington's open-doored republic must have 
looked absurd even to himself. In fact, he 
never struck at anything, nor "put it to the 
touch," for the major reason suggested by the 
Cavalier poet, that he "feared his fate too 
much." His inertia was due mainly, of course, 
to the Circean drugs, and partially to his con- 
stitutional fragility, and a dull submissiveness 
which he took, perhaps, to be his duty. He 
had extreme charity for everybody but Clar- 
ence Mangan. It seems superfluous to say 
that he made no rebellious clutches at life, 
had no greed. Thinking once of domestic 
peace, debts discharged, and acknowledged per- 
sonal value to a community, Goldsmith sighed 
in a letter to his brother: "Since I knew what 
it was to be a man, I have not known these 
things." Worldly wisdom is not a gift left in 
Irish cradles. It was Mangan's instinct, as it 
was Goldsmith's, to "hitch his wagon to a star," 
and presently to discover, without any change 
of countenance, that his star had no legs, and 

7 O ' 

so to stand, a spectacle for the laughter of men 
and gods. He was unfair to himself, we know. 
And the world was unfair to him, and to his 
industry. It is his chief negative merit that 
he was duped and driven to the wall. Such 
weakness, rather than the " push" which re- 


ceives superstitious reverence, is advanced civ- 
ilization ; and yet it must not be recommended 
in hornbooks. Civilized Mangan was, nay, 
more : unlike " Goldy," he might be called 
genteel. About the tight coat and the torn 
stock was an aroma as of wilted elegance, a 
deceptive aroma of what had never been. His 
manner had great charm; his voice and smile 
were winning. With a gliding grace, he wan- 
dered around the journalist offices of Trinity 
Street; after prolonged eclipse, the outcast ap- 
parition alighted again in the doorway, and 
heads of curious clerks bobbed up from the 
desks. "He looked like the spectre of some 
German romance," said his most appreciative 
contemporary. "He stole into The Nation 
office once a week, to talk over literary pros- 
pects ; but if any of my friends appeared, he 
took flight on the instant. In earlier days, I 
had spent many a night, up to the small hours, 
listening to his delightful monologues on 
poetry and metaphysics; but the animal spirits 
and hopefulness of vigorous young men op- 
pressed him, and he fled from the admiration 
and sympathy of a stranger as others do from 
reproach or insult." Sir Charles Gavan Duffy 
also speaks of him, during The Nation years, a s 
" so purely a poet that he shrank from all 
other exercises of his intellect. He cared noth- 


ing for political projects. He could never be 
induced to attend the weekly suppers, and 
knew many of his fellow-laborers only by 
name." And once more, as late as 1893, in 
the course of a private correspondence with a 
clerical friend and admirer : " Some of the 
pleasantest evenings of my life were spent with 
Mangan in a room in the office of The Morn- 
ing Register^ I being then sub-editor. Mangan 
recited verse with singular power : not with the 
skill of an elocutionist, but with the elan of a 
man of genius ; and his memory was inexhaust- 
ible. Great ceremonies, splendid feasts, and 
distinguished personages have faded away from 
my mind ; but these nights with Mangan are 
still fresh and vivid." Sometimes, if Mangan 
talked at all, he indulged in a soft, desultory, 
uncanny soliloquy, in the ear of an old friend. 
" It was easy to perceive that his being was all 
drowned in the blackest despair. . . . He saw 
spirits, too, and received unwelcome visits from 
his dead father, whom he did not love." In 
spite of destiny he would anon be gay. There 
was nothing in him of the roisterer, but his 
speech was full of sudden witticisms, sly fool- 
ing which drew no blood. He could not tor- 
bear a bit of satire at the expense of his 
countrymen, as in his charming claim of the 
discovery of fire, by Prometheus, five thousand 


six hundred years ago, in Kilkenny! The 
grimmest poem he wrote has its play upon 
words, at which melancholy game he takes 
rank with Heine and Thomas Hood, invinci- 
bles like himself. "Poor Clarence Mangan, 
with his queer puns and jokes, and odd little 
cloak and wonderful hat!" so his old desk- 
mate in the Ordnance Survey Office, Mr. W. 
F. Wakeman, paints him, not without a hand- 
some reference to the huge inevitable umbrella. 
This implement, says Father Meehan, was 
"carried like a cotton oriflamme in the most 
settled weather, and might, when partly cov- 
ered by his cloak, easily be mistaken for a 
Scotch bagpipe." Never were clothes so mar- 
ried to a personality; they were as much a 
part of Mangan as his shining blue eyes, or 
his quiet, rapid, monk-like step. He had a 
brown caped cloak in which he seemed to have 
been born; and the strange antique dismaying 
hat aforesaid, fixed over his yellow silken 
dishevelled hair, is set down, to our great satis- 
faction (in the preface to O' Daly's Poets of 
Munster), as broad-leafed, steeple-shaped, and 
presumably built on the Hudibras model ! 
Stooped, but not short; wan, thin, and bright; 
powdery with dust from the upper shelf; 
equipped with the scant toga precariously but- 
toned, the great goggles, and the king-umbrella 


of Great Britain and Ireland, such was Man- 
gan, so ludicrous and so endearing a figure that 
one wishes him but a thought in Fielding's 
brain, lovingly handled in three volumes octavo, 
and abstracted from the hard vicissitudes of 


A lecture on Mangan was lately delivered in 
Glasgow by Mr. W. Boyle. We learn from a 
newspaper report that after giving the date of 
birth, May Day of 1803, this gentleman said 
further: " You will all remember that some four 
and twenty years before, upon another May 
morning, another poet, named Thomas Moore, 
had been born above another grocer's shop in 
the same old city. . . . To one, the dignified 
society of all the great and brilliant of his time, 
the sweetest bowers on the world's sunniest 
slopes ; to the other, the reeking slum, the 
evil-smelling taproom, the garret, and the 
lazar-house. To Moore, the loving admira- 
tion of all men, high and low; to Mangan the 
pitying approval of the few, and even in his 
own city, the all but complete forgetfulness of 
the many. And yet some of you will be sur- 
prised to learn that Mangan, in the intervals 
of his employment as a scrivener, and during 


the active period of a life disturbed by illness, 
and not more than half as long, composed al- 
most as many lines of verse as Moore, who 
devoted all his time and mind and soul to the 
pursuits of literature." In the matter of mere 
quantity these two come together, who in all 
else stand asunder at the poles of the lyric 
world. Mangan, as may be surmised, made 
no sustained flights; but there survive from his 
pen rather more than two thousand short com- 
positions, about half of which are translations, 
or, in some measure too generously acknowl- 
edged, inspired by poems in another language. 
We may roughly rate his purely original work 
(the finer half of which, again, he chose to 
call translation), as numbering fully a thousand 
pieces. To reprint Mangan in the bulk would 
be (and one may count that his first stroke of 
luck !) difficult. It would amount, moreover, 
to the sin of detraction. The thinnest duo- 
decimo, containing at the most thirty-five 
poems, would adequately show the quintes- 
sence of his gift, to the few whose senses are 
quick at literary divination. Slight as is the 
body of Mangan's poetry hitherto printed as 
his own, he shows in it conspicuous inequality. 
It is hard to believe that the strophes of 
Enthusiasm, whose opening invocation Clough 
might have penned, 


" Not yet trodden-under wholly, 
Not yet darkened, 
O my spirit's flickering lamp ! art thou," 

belong to the same source as certain numbers 
artfully omitted from this book. But Mangan 
must have his range : awful when he draws him- 
self up to the Pompeiian or the Karamanian 
attitude, and something else when he touches 
Ireland and the peasants' famine-year, in 

" Understand your position, 
Remember your mission, 
And vacillate not 
Whatsoever ensue ! " 

The majority of his fugitive verses were given 
to The Dublin Penny Journal, from 1 832 to 1 837 ; 
to The Irish Penny Journal, started in 1 840, for 
which he wrote much ; to The Nation and The 
United Irishman , and to The Dublin University 
Magazine, to which, in his intermittent fash- 
ion, he was faithful throughout. He is to be 
traced under various signatures : The Man in 
the Cloak, Monos, Lageniensis, Vacuus, The 
Mourner, A Yankee, Terras Filius, Wilhelm, 
J.C. M., Clarence, Clarence Mangan, and James 
Clarence Mangan. " Throughout his whole liter- 
ary lite of twenty years," says his patriot friend 
Mitchel, " he never published a line in any Eng- 
lish periodical or through any English bookseller. 


He never appeared to be aware that there was 
a British public to please." Mangan, modest 
by nature, had schooled himself to the neglect 
of the critics ; no selfish zeal was able to fire 
him, and he would not have crossed the street 
to advance his interests. He says roguishly of 
one of his home-made German poets, " Selber's 
toploftical disdain of human applause is the 
only great thing about him, except his cloak." 
It is just to reflect, also, that he kept from the 
agreeable ways of publicity in London, because 
his feelings and associations, so far as they were 
defined, were republican and hostile, and on the 
side of his country in her storms of fifty years 
ago. At any rate, he never burned the per- 
missible candle to Mammon. London, and 
through her, posterity, are the losers ; there 
would have been, sooner or later, no doubt of 
his welcome. He was not uncritical. He 
likened his genius to "a mountain stream," and 
no analysis could be better, on the whole. His 
home is on untrodden highlands, in rough pre- 
cipitous places, where only the Munster shep- 
herd-boys pass with their flocks, and drink of 
the gushing water, and dream not but that all 
water tastes the same, the wide world over. 

Miserable as Mangan was, he had comfort 
in his art. On this subject, where so many are 
loquacious enough, he is dumb. We know 


very little of his literary habits, save that he 
wrote fitfully, and often failed, in his earlier 
years, to get a farthing's pay. He apologizes 
for gaps in his various Anthologize, once by 
pleading that he had mislaid the last leaves of 
his manuscript, again by saying that he had not 
of late found a peaceful hour in which to re- 
sume his task. He belied himself by letting 
men think that this irregularity was due to too 
convivial nights. On that subject he gives us 
an epigram. 

"Thinkers have always been drinkers, and scribblers 

will always be bibblers ; 

Waiter! I solemnly charge you to vanish, and make 
yourself handy ! " 


His work, at its worst, has the faults insepa- 
rable from the conditions under which it was 
wrought: it is stumbling, pert, diffuse, dis- 
traught. What Mr. Gosse has named the 
" overflow," the flux of a line-ending into 
the next line's beginning, so that it becomes 
difficult to read both aloud, and preserve the 
stress and rhyme, this bad habit of good poets, 
completely ruins several of Mangan's longer 
pieces. He had in rull that racial luxuriance 
and fluency which, wonderful to see in their 


happier action, tend always to carry a writer off 
his feet, and wash him into the deep sea of 
slovenliness. Mangan's scholarship, painfully, 
intermittently acquired, never distilled itself 
into him, to react imperiously on all he wrote, 
smoothing the rough and welding the disjointed. 
Again, his mental strength, crowded back from 
the highways of literature, wreaked itself in 
feats not the worthiest : in the taming of un- 
heard-of metres, in illegal decoration of other 
men's fabrics, in orthoepic and homonymic 
freaks of all kinds, not to be matched since the 
Middle Ages. 

He delights in creating oceans of this sort of 
thing (1835): 

u Besides, of course, heroically bearing 
The speech, half-sneer, half-compliment, of Baring, 
And standing the infliction of a peel 
Of plaudits from Lord Eldon and Bob Peel." 

Or this (1839):- 

"The wretch, who rescued from the halter, still 

Will kill, 
Or he, who after trampling tillages, 

Pillages villages, 
Has less of guiltiness than one who when 

Men pen 
Such rubbish as the dullest must despise, 

Cries ' Wise ! ' 


What he alleges, with truth, in a posthumous 
fragment, of Maginn, may be reverted to him- 
self: " He wrote alike without labor and with- 
out limit. He had, properly speaking, no 
style ; or rather, he was master of all styles, 
though he cared for none." The legerdemain 
he shows in handling our flexible language, is 
hardly so admirable as it has been said, on 
excellent authority, to be. His compound 
rhymes, his unearthly opulent metres, are in- 
deed extraordinary ; but their effect is often 
gained by illegitimate means. Mangan has no 
philological scruples, no " literary conscience," 
whatever. Does he need a rhyme, he invents 
a word, chooses one which is archaic, or gives 
to a known one some grotesque turn ; he has 
prefixtures and elisions ever on duty ; his mu- 
sicianly ear cannot be relied upon to keep him 
always clear of English sibilations ; he fre- 
quently loses his sense of the place and time 
to stop; and when he attempts recognized 
forms, as in the sapphics (with breath-catching 
rhymes!) of his own Lure/ay, or the alexan- 
drines of Freiligrath's spirited 

"Bound, bound, my desert barb from Alexandria!' 

the result is somewhat fearsome, to say the 
least. While a poet subdues technical difficul- 
ties by overriding their laws, success so oh- 


tained must be ruled out of court. However, 
a born metrist he was, though a perverse one. 
From his very first appearances in print, as a 
young boy, he displays as his essential charac- 
teristics, imagination, and the greatest verbal 
dexterity. A good proportion of his poems 
are informal exhibitions by a virtuoso, a game 
of all miracles known to writing man. His 
best burlesque rivals Butler's and Thomas 
Hood's, which is the same as saying that it 
attains the front rank. But we cannot endure 
mediocre burlesque in the author of Dark 
Rosa/een. His prose, nearly always, is forced, 
and defaced with tedious puns. The painful 
mummery of some pages (of which, it is but 
fair to recall, their author had never the revi- 
sion, and which should not have been, nor 
should be reprinted) is not representative of 
anything but the awkwardness that comes at 
intervals over Mangan, and stands between 
him and his angel, 

" When the angel says, ' Write.' ' 

As an essayist, despite some fine flashes, he is 
hardly worth preserving. Nor can it be de- 
nied that the same element of restlessness and 
strain, a sort of alloy from the frightful pov- 
erty and degradation nigh it, gets at times 

A STUDY 6 1 

even into much of Mangan's golden poetic 
work. " Hippocrene may be inexhaustible," he 
says quaintly, " but it flows up to Us through 
a pump." Did ever the Virgilian distinction 
spring from a houseless Muse, half-fed ? The 
marvel, rather, is that the spirit in Mangan so 
often surmounts the most appalling obstacles 
known to the human mind. 

Mitchel, who had unerring literary acumen, 
detected in him the conflict of " deepest pathos 
and a sort of fictitious jollity." At times, he 
says, the poet breaks into would-be humor, 
"not merry and hearty fun, but rather gro- 
tesque, bitter, Fescennine buffoonery, which 
leaves an unpleasant impression, as if he were 
grimly sneering at himself and all the world, 
purposely spoiling and marring the effect of 
fine poetry by turning it into burlesque, and 
showing how meanly he regarded everything, 
even his art wherein he lived and had his 
being, when he compared his own exalted ideas 
of art and life with the littleness of all his 
experiences and performances." Mitchel was 
thinking, in all probability, of the ruinous but 
very clever postlude to The Broken-Hearted 
Song, and the interpolation of Yankee dialect 
in a lyric raucously beginning, 

u O hush such sounds! " 


To such spoliations his words apply. But there 
is a vast deal of facetious excellence in Man- 
gan. Amid less felicitous drollery, the reader 
can take pleasure in a snatch of triumphant 
parody on Moore, and a recurring chorus which 
is a real gold nugget of comic opera : 

" So spake the stout Haroun-al-Raschid, 
With his jolly ugly hookah in his hand ! " 

Will it be believed that Mangan was a choice 
librettist, without his opportunity ? Were he 
earning his living in the same walk to-day, Mr. 
W. S. Gilbert might look to his laurels. Some 
of his nonsense runs for all the world like a 
Gilbert and Sullivan " topical song," in long 
rattling declamatory lines, of wit and anima- 
tion all compact. Behold the exhumed pre- 
cursor of The Mikado ! The Gilbertian accent 
is unmistakably prefigured, in Mangan's humor- 
ous hours. Sundry lines need but to put in an 
appearance at the Savoy Theatre, and be wel- 
comed at once as long-lost fathers, by all the 
six-time A-major presto e staccato tribe modern 
playgoers know so well : 

"As backward he staggered 
With countenance haggard, 
And feelings as acid as beer after thunder, 
'Twas plain that the dart which had entered his heart 
Was rending his physical system asunder ! 


and so on; for there is no dearth of it. Let us 
take Metempsychosis as a fair specimen of Man- 
gan's achievement in this direction. It purports 
to derive its parentage from John Frederick 
Castelli, " a very select wag," in Klauer-Klat- 
towski's Popular Songs of the Germans. 


I've studied sundry treatises by spectacled old sages 
Anent the capabilities and nature of the soul, and 
Its vagabond propensities from even the earliest ages, 
As harped on by Spinoza, Plato, Leibnitz, Chubb, and 

But of all systems I've yet met or p'raps shall ever 

meet with, 
Not one can hold a candle to, (videlicet, compete 


The theory of theories Pythagoras proposes, 
And called by that profound old snudge (in Greek,) 


It seems to me a positive truth, admitting of no modi- 
Fication, that the human soul, accustomed to a lodging 
Inside a carnal tenement, must, when it quits one 


Instead of sailing to and fro, and profitlessly dodging 
About from post to pillar without either pause or pur- 
Seek out a habitation in some other cozy corpus ; 


And when, by luck, it pops on one with which its 

habits match, box 
Itself therein instanter, like a sentry in a watch-box. 

This may be snapped at, sneered at, sneezed at; deuce 

may care for cavils ! 
Reason is reason. Credit me, I've met at least one 

Of instances to prop me up : I've seen upon my 

Foxes who had been lawyers at, no doubt, some former 

period ; 

Innumerable apes, who, tho' they'd lost their patro- 

I recognized immediately as mountebanks and mimics; 
And asses, calves et cetera, whose rough bodies gave 

To certain souls, the property of learned professors 


To go on with my catalogue, what will you bet I've 
seen a 

Goose, that was reckoned, in her day, a pretty-faced 
young woman ? 

But more than that. I knew at once a bloody-lipped 

To have been a Russian marshal, or an ancient em- 
peror. (Roman.) 

All snakes and vipers, toads and reptiles, crocodiles 
and crawlers, 

I set down as court sycophants or hypocritic bawlers ; 


And there, I may've been right or wrong, but noth- 
ing can be truer 
Than this, that in a scorpion I beheld a vile reviewer ! 

So far, we've had no stumbling-block. But now a 

puzzling question 
Arises. All the afore-named souls were souls of 

stunted stature, 

Contemptible or cubbish ; but Pythag. has no sug- 
Concerning whither transmigrate souls noble in their 

As Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Schiller ! These now, 

for example, 
What temple can be found for such appropriately 

ample ? 
Where lodge they now ? Not, certes, in our present 

Who mumble rhymes that seem to've been concocted 

by their grammars. 

Well, then, you see, it comes to this : and after huge 

Here's what I say ! A soul that gains, by many trans- 

The summit, apex, pinnacle, or acme of perfection, 

There ends, concludes, and terminates its earthly pere- 
grinations ; 

Then, like an air-balloon, it mounts thro' high Olym- 
pus' portals, 

And cuts its old connections with mortality and 


And evidence to back me here I don't know any 

Than that the Truly Great and Good are found on 

earth no longer ! 

As it is not within the scope of this book to 
amass Mangan's comic poetry, we may cull 
here perhaps, in passing, three more character- 
istic samples of it, the last of which, once more, 
is a fantasia on the jolly German Burscbenlied, 
which Mangan translated in conjunction with 
Gustav Schwab's almost equally good Rurscas 
Departure from College. This original epigram 
celebrates the author's personal appearance. 

" I, once plump as Shiraz' grape, 
Am, like Thalhh of thin renown, 
Grown most chasmy, most phantasmy, 
Yea, most razor-sharp in shape ! 
Fact : and if I'm blown thro' town, 
I'll cut all the sumphs who pass me." 


My friend, Tom Bentley, borrowed from me lately 

A score of yellow shiners. Subsequently 

I met the cove, and dunned him rather gently. 

Immediately he stood extremely stately, 

And swore 'pon honor that he wondered greatly ! 

We parted coolly. " Well," (exclaimed I ment'lly,) 


" I calculate this isn't acting straightly : 

You're what slangwhangers call a scamp, Tom Bent- 
ley ! " 

In sooth, I thought his impudence prodigious, 

And so I told Jack Spratt a few days after; 

But Jack burst into such a fit of laughter ! 

" Fact is," said he, " poor Tom has turned religious." 

I stared, and asked him what it was he meant. 

u Why, don't you see ? " quoth Jack. " He keeps the 



Very good, very good : he is ripe ! 

So let him fill up a pipe, 

So let him fill up a smokified pipe, 

(Ho, ho ! 

A smokified pipe.) 
So let him fill up a mighty old pipe. 


Ugh ! take it away from me quick ! 

Ugh, hog-sties ! it makes me so sick, 

Ugh, hog-sties ! it makes me so smokified sick ! 

(Ho, ho! 

Dim smokified sick.) 
Ugh, hog-sties ! it makes me so mighty old sick ! 


Then let the cub sneak to his den, 
And let him not smoke it again ! 


No, let him not smoke with us smokified men, 

(Ho, ho ! 

Dim smokified men.) 
And let him not smoke with us mighty old men. 


There, now ! . . . I am rid of the spell ; 
There, now, I again am all well ; 
There, now ! I am smokified well : 

(Ho, ho ! 

Am smokified well.) 
Hurrah ! I again feel mighty old well ! 


So grows the Wild Fox a Bursch, 
So grows the Wild Fox a Bursch, 
So grows the Wild Fox a smokified Bursch ! 

(Ho, ho ! 

A smokified Bursch.) 
So grows the Wild Fox a mighty old Bursch ! 

For a riotous college-song this passes mus- 
ter. (Innocent Foxling, never to have smoked 
before ! Or was there an unholiest substance 
in that bowl ?) 


Mangan had not been given for nothing his 
title to the Erin of song. He atoned to the 
venerable tongue he could neither speak nor 


understand, by making it articulate in the hear- 
ing of the invader. Running into twilight 
fields of his own, as was his wont, he dedicated 
exquisite work, albeit a trifle schismatical, to 
the ancient literature of his country, in the day 
of its last splendid but brief revival. Several 
scholars, among them the great Eugene Curry 
of Mr. Matthew Arnold's admiration, furnished 
Mangan, toward the end of his life, with literal 
drafts in English of the many ballads taken 
down from the lips of the peasants, which he 
was to render for publisher O'Daly of Anglesea 
Street and for the Gaelic and Archaeological 
societies ; and within these outlines he built up 
structures not untrue to their first design. Mr. 
J. H. Ingram, editing Mangan's twelve poems 
for the third volume of Mr. Alfred H. Miles's 
collection, Poets of the Century, and basing all 
his facts, if not his judgments, on Mitchel, 
calls these renditions from the Irish "spirit- 
less." Some persons may think that there is 
a breathless grandeur in Mangan's chanting 
of the hymn of Saint Patrick, At Tarah To-Day^ 
and that a less "spiritless" thing never came 
into being. It was with such deep-mouthed 
apostrophes that he was best fitted to cope. 
He was able to try them again in a translation 
sacred to war, as the other is sacred to Christian 
peace: O'Hussefs Ode to The Maguire : rude 


heroic strophes bursting from the heart of the 
last hereditary bard of the great sept of Fer- 
managh, as late as the reign of Charles the First, 
while the courtly lyres of England were tink- 
ling a cannon-shot away. Quite as good as 
these, in its province, is the sarcastic rattle of 
The Woman of Three Cows. My Dark Rosaleen 
is worth them all, " on a pinnacle apart." It was 
written by a worthy contemporary of Shake- 
speare, an unknown minstrel of the Tyrcon- 
nell chief, Aodh Na Domhnaill (Hugh Roe, 
or the Red, O'Donnell), who put upon the 
lips of his lord, as addressed to Ireland, the 
love-name of " Roisin Dubh," the Black- 
Haired Little Rose. More exact versions of 
this symbolic masterpiece have since been 
made, but the stormy beauty of Mangan's lines 
does away with considerations of law and order. 
From an extract such as " Over hills and hol- 
lows I have travelled for you, Roisin Dubh ! 
and crossed Loch Erne in a strong wind ; far 
would I go to serve my flower ; . . . but the 
mountains shall be valleys and the rivers flow- 
ing backward before I shall let harm befall my 
Roisin Dubh," the poet draws the second, 
fifth, and last stanzas of his noble seven, the 
fifth of these, the passage about " holy delicate 
white hands," being a pure gratuity, like a 
foam-ball on the stream. 


Since My Dark Rosaken is perfect, its genesis 
cannot be uninteresting. The original literal 
English of it is to be found in the Egerton 
MSS. in the British Museum. The song (it 
was, rather, a group of traditional songs) fig- 
ures in James Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy, or 
Bardic Remains of Ireland (1831). Hardiman's 
translators, Messrs. Dalton, Furlong, Curran, 
and others, were learned gentlemen of much 
disinterestedness, giving their leisure to the 
work, who yet felt it necessary to condone, 
quite as if they belonged to the eighteenth 
century, the " barbarity " of the antique 
phrases, and to foist upon them modern 
smoothness and circumlocution. Roisin Dubb 
may or may not be, as has been claimed for it 
also, a personal and passionate old love-song. 
(To the peasantry of to-day it is that only.) 
The opening and the close seem to bear out 
strongly the theory held by most scholars, 
that it is the allegory of proscribed patriots, 
who dared not directly address their unhappy 
country. During this war of the northern 
clans against Elizabeth, as during the Jacobite 
insurrections, Ireland was, as the gallant song 
has it of the MacGregors, " nameless by day." 
The allusions to Rome and Spain refer to aid 
promised from both quarters. The unadulter- 
ated " prose poem " follows, in full : 


rosebud, let there not be sorrow on you on account 

of what happened you ! 
The friars are coming over the sea, and they are 

moving on the ocean ; 
Your pardon will come from the Pope and from 

Rome in the east, 
And spare not the Spanish wine on my Roisin Dubh. 

The course is long over which I brought you from 

yesterday to this day. 
Over mountains I went with you, and under sails 

across the sea; 

The Erne I passed at a bound, though great the flood, 
And there was music of strings on each side of me 

and my Roisin Dubh. 

You have killed me, my fair one, and may you suffer 

dearly for it ! 
And my soul within is in love for you, and that 

neither of yesterday nor to-dav ; 

You left me weak and feeble in aspect and in form ; 
Do not discard me, and I pining for you, my Roisin 

Dubh ! 

1 would walk the dew with you, and the desert of the 

In hope that I would obtain love from you, or part of 

my desire. 
Fragrant little mouth ! you have promised me that 

you had love for me : 
And she is the flower of Munster, she, my Roisin 



smooth rose ! modest, of the round white breasts, 
You are she that left a thousand pains in the very 

centre of my heart. 

Fly with me, O first love ! and leave the country : 
And if I could, would I not make a queen of you, 

my Roisin Dubh ? 

If I had a plough, I would plough against the hills, 
And I would make the gospel in the middle of the 
Mass for my Black Rosebud : 

1 would give a kiss to the young girl that would give 

her youth to me, 

And I would make delights behind the fort with my 
Roisin Dubh. 

The Erne shall be in its strong flood, the hills shall 

be uptorn, 
And the sea shall have its waves red, and blood shall 

be spilled ; 
Every mountain-valley and every moor throughout 

Ireland shall be on high, 
Some day, before you shall perish, my Roisin Dubh. 

No fewer than three times did Mangan try 
his hand at this truly bardic fragment. The 
first experiment was a happy one : yet our 
skilled reviser was not satisfied with it. 

Since last night's star, afar, afar, 
Heaven saw my speed ; 


I seemed to fly o'er mountains high 

On magic steed. 

I dashed thro' Erne ! The world may learn 

The cause from love : 

For light or sun shone on me none, 

But Roisin Dubh. 

O Roisin mine, droop not, nor pine ; 

Look not so dull ! 

The Pope from Rome shall send thee home 

A pardon full ; 

The priests are near : O do not fear ! 

From heaven above 

They come to thee, they come to free 

My Roisin Dubh. 

Thee have I loved, for thee have roved 

O'er land and sea ; 

My heart was sore, and evermore 

It beat for thee ; 

I could not weep, I could not sleep, 

I could not move ! 

For night or day I dreamed alway 

Of Roisin Dubh. 

Thro' Munster land, by shore and strand, 

Far could I roam, 

If I might get my loved one yet, 

And brinu; her home : 


O sweetest flower that blooms in bower, 
Or dell, or grove ! 
Thou lovest me, and I love thee, 
My Roisin Dubh. 

The sea shall burn, the earth shall mourn, 

The skies rain blood, 

The world shall rise in dread surprise 

And warful mood, 

And hill and lake in Eire shake 

And hawk turn dove, 

Ere you shall pine, ere you decline, 

My Roisin Dubh ! 

Accordingly, we find a second version by 
Mangan in The Poets and Poetry of Munster 
from which we take the four last verses : 

In years gone by, how you and I seemed glad and 

blest : 
My wedded wife, you cheered my life, you warmed 

my breast ! 

The fairest one the living sun e'er decked with sheen, 
The brightest rose that buds or blows, is Dark 


My guiding star of hope you are, all glow and grace, 
My blooming love, my spouse above all Adam's 

race : 
In deed or thought vou cherish naught of low or 

O ./ O 

mean ; 
The base alone can hate my own, my Dark Roisin. 


O never mourn as one forlorn, but bide your hour ; 
Your friends ere long, combined and strong, will prove 

their power. 
From distant Spain will sail a train to change the 

That makes you sad, for one more glad, my Dark 


Till then, adieu, my fond and true, adieu till then ! 
Tho' now you grieve, still, still believe we'll meet 

again ; 
I'll yet return with hopes that burn, and broadsword 

keen : 
Fear not, nor think you e'er can sink, my Dark 

Roisin ! 

The theme had taken hold of Mangan's im- 
agination. Last of all, in 1 845 or after, with the 
right mood of selection upon him, and with 
the warm consciousness at heart of the docility 
of the one style he had made his own, the 
poet fused together the best in the Roisin 
ballads, and broke into the inebriating music of 
My Dark Rosaleen. 

It is, let us say, the most original of them 
all. The manner, too, is all Mangan's; its 
noteworthiest feature being the rich recurrence 
of words and lines for which Roisin Dubb gives 
no warrant, and to whose examination we shall 
return when we come to speak of Poe. Be- 


tween My Dark Rosaleen and the preceding 
lyrics made from Roisin Dubh by the same hand, 
is a difference : all the difference there can be 
between things cunningly wrought, and the thing 
divinely inspired. 

Of this translation, and of two or three 
others from a kindred source, Mr. Maurice 
Leyne wrote in a supplement to The Nation^ 
long ago: "Their beauty can scarcely be exag- 
gerated. To compare with them any actual 
remains which we have of the Jacobite poetry 
would be extravagant. They are what an Irish 
bard might have written if to the deep vague 
love of country, the longing, the dreaminess, 
the allegoric expressions of his art, were added 
all that modern culture can give of distinct- 
ness of feeling and sequence of idea. We have 
other poets who have caught with wonderful 
fidelity and felicity the Gaelic turns of thought 
and the structure of the language ; but in Man- 
gan the very Gaelic heart seems poured out." 
Mangan, however, was not always a successful 
conductor of sounds reaching him obliquely, 
through the stout persons ot Irish scholars. 
Certain numbers, such as O ' Hussey 's Ode, and 
Prince Aldfrid* s Itinerary, are modelled, with 
the most astonishing closeness, on faithful un- 
rhymed renditions in The Penny Journal (1832) 
and The University Magazine (1834). But no 


critic can set Mangan's flat and passionless 
Eileen Aroon beside the wonderful strain of 
Carroll O'Daly, or prefer The Fair Hills of 
Eire, O, charming as that is, to Sir Samuel 

" A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer," 

which has the advantage, in this instance, of 
greater literalness. And comparison is least 
possible between the two native translators, 
when it comes to the Boatman's Hymn, yet sung, 
in vernacular snatches, off the wild western 
coast. Not only is the Fergusson version a 
hundred-fold more pleasing, but it is, in equal 
measure, more Gaelic. It rushes along like 
the wind scooping the dusky Kerry sails. 

"Bark that bears me thro' foam and squall! 
'Tis you in the storm are my castle wall. 
Tho' the sea should redden from bottom to top, 
From tiller to mast she takes no drop. 
On the tide-top, the tide-top, 
Wherry aroon, my land and store ! 
On the tide-top, the tide-top, 
She is the boat can sail go tear." 

How does Mangan start off with this finest of 
open-air themes ? 

" O my gallant, gallant bark ! 
Oft, a many a day, and oft 


When the stormy skies above are dark, 

And the surges foam aloft, 

Dost thou ride 

In thy pride 

O'er the swelling bosom of the sea; 

Tho' lightning flash 

And thunder crash, 

Still, my royal bark, they daunt not thee. 

Yeo-ho, yeo-ho ! 

The bar is full, the tide runs high. 

So ! ready hand, and steady eye, 

And merrily we go." 

And at the close, in the apostrophe to the 
Atlantic crag (which one poet salutes as 

" Whillan ahoy ! old heart of stone," 
and the other, more suo, as 

"Dark Dalan, colossal cliff,") 

as well as in the whimsical outcry of the fisher- 
men terrified at the speed of" Wherry aroon" 
it is easy to decide which translator attains to 
the sailor-like and singable, and which remains 
merely literary. I cannot think that Sir Sam- 
uel Fergusson ever yielded, in power of in- 
terpretation, to Mangan, in any single case 
where they chose to handle the same origi- 
nals. Despite it, we have not from him, nor 
could we have had, a Dark Rosaleen. Mr. 


Maurice Leyne, in the illuminating article 
quoted a moment ago, speaks of Mangan's 
as a typically Irish temperament : " a tem- 
perament," according to another sociologist, 
" which makes both men and nations feeble 
in adversity, and great, gay, and generous in 
prosperity." Is he so generic ? It is impos- 
sible to think of any class or race of Mangans. 
Like Swaran in Ossian, he " brings his own 
dark wing," whereas some readers have asked 
for references, antecedents, certificates. Or per- 
haps, to say that such a one is Celtic, is to put 
him back among the indescribables. One Wil- 
son, a phrenologist, made in the February of 
1835 a professional examination of Mangan's 
beautifully-shaped head, with this recorded re- 
sult. " Constructiveness is hardly developed at 
all ; on which account he would not have a 
genius for mechanism or invention generally, 
but he would possess the power of magnifying, 
embellishing, and beautifying in the highest de- 
gree. A tendency to exaggerate and amplify 
would pervade whatever he undertook." Here 
we have, disguised as a communication from 
the physical sciences, a remarkable bit of lit- 
erary criticism. The verdict is perfectly true, 
though opium had helped to make it so. 
Mangan was not least Irish ("Oriental" Irish) 
in this, that he loved expansions and dilutions, 

A STUDY 8 i 

and could not forbear yoking quantity with 
quality. A hypochondriac too odd to be sus- 
ceptible of classification, he is 

u like almost anything, 
Or a yellow albatross ! " 

And eccentricity itself is a purely Celtic prop- 
erty. Strange that his genius is happier on 
Saxon than on Celtic ground! 


Mangan's chief passion was for the Ger- 
mans, then in their aesthetic flowering-time ; he 
herded by instinct with these contemporaries 
best fitted to be his guides and friends. Con- 
stant immersion in the strong stream of their 
thought (for he read endless German metaphys- 
ics as well as German poetry), colored his intel- 
lectual life. He knew no stronger influence. 
" Meines Herz Ricbter" he calls John Paul. 
Mangan's only book published during his life- 
time was the Anthologia Germanica, which, hav- 
ing run its course in a magazine, was printed 
(without its prose passages) at Gavan Duffy's 
expense, in 1845. Some of the lyrics included 
have a transmitted truthfulness, as of a ray 
through clear glass. Even Schiller's great note 
is echoed, now and then, with absolute iner- 


rancy. There are few finer illustrations of 
aural sensitiveness in a translator than Mangan 
gives us in the eleventh and twelfth stanzas 
of Der Gang nach dem Eisenhammer (The Message 
to the Foundry}. 

Da ritt in seines Zornes Wut 

Der Graf ins nahe Holz, 

Wo ihm in hoher Oefen Glut 

Die Eisenstufe schmolz. 

Hier nahrten friih und spat den Brand 

Die Knechte mit geschaft'ger Hand ; 

Der Funke spriiht, die Biilge blasen, 

Als gait' es, Felsen zu verglasen. 

Des Wassers und des Feuers Kraft 

Verbiindet sieht man hier ; 

Das Miihlrad, von der Flut gcrafft, 

Umwalzt sich fur und fur. 

Die Werke klappern Nacht und Tag, 

Im Lakte pocht der Hammer Schlag, 

Und bildsam von den ma'cht' gen Streichen, 

Muss selbst das Eisen sich erweichen. 

At once into a neighboring wood 
The Count in frenzy rode, 
Wherein an iron foundry stood 
Whose furnace redly glowed. 
Here, late and early, swinking hands 
Fed volumed flame and blazing brands, 
While sparkles flew and bellows roared, 
And molten ore in billows poured. 


Here waves on waves, fires hot and hotter, 
In raging strength were found ; 
Huge mill-wheels, turned by foaming water, 
Clanged, clattering, round and round. 
Harsh engines brattled night and day ; 
The thunderous hammer stunned alway 
With sledgeblows blended, which descended 
Till even the stubborn iron bended. 

The Maid of Orleans finds its very self again 
in Mangan's English; so does The Fisher; 
Riickert's enchanting Das Eine Lied (Nature 
More than Science], LJhland's Lebe wohl y lebe 
wobl, mein Lieb, and Alexander and the Tree: 
these wed literalness to beauty, in their own 
established metre. Half a dozen times, he so 
touches the achievement set before him ; nay, 
rivals it, as he certainly does in the magical 
simile about " the piping notes of the coppice 
bird," closely inwrought with Kerner's song of 
praise to Uhland for his book : a song really as 
fresh and rushing in Mangan as in the original, 
and far more prodigal of music. Many pages 
are simple, spontaneous, choice. But when all 
is said, the Anthologia is a kaleidoscope, rather 
than a mirror. The majority of these German 
poems, being what the Irish ones are not, the 
children of conventional art, suffer more from 
Mangan's swervings and strayings. He treats 
his great victims pretty much as Burns, with 


every justification, treats the floating Scotch 
ballads : he adjusts, he reverses ; into his old 
material he infuses a novel substance. In 
scarcely any instance is he content to keep a 
poem's given title ; and upon it he can foist 
foreign matter, with an almost criminal restless- 
ness. If he need not confess, with the Sir 
E B L of Bon Gaultier : 

"I've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, 
And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own," 

at least he may well be pardoned for his all- 
too-generous doings elsewhere : for Clarence 
Mangan seldom detracts from the Muse he pro- 
fesses to follow ; his unfaithfulness is in quite 
another category. Having satisfied you with 
what exquisite attentiveness he can follow his 
exemplars, he hastens to show how variously, 
how cunningly, and how effectually he can run 
away from them. The single tact of his hav- 
ing transformed the hard-hearted Kunegund 
of Die Begrussung auf dem K\nast (The Ride 
Around the Parapet}, into the Lady Eleanora 
von Alleyne, trumpeting her to and fro with 
splendid corroborations, is indicative enough of 
his habits. Mangan takes under protest, though 
his endeavor is always to make you think him 
a great assimilator and economist ; but he is a 
prodigal giver. He hates the niggardly hand, 


as much as Horace does, and he cares not a 
straw how much of himself he throws away at 
his game of setting up a poet in whom he has 
no special interest, and who is often his inferior.* 
This is, indeed, as a severe reviewer named it 
at the time, a " vicious system " ; and it cannot 
be justified by the undeniable fact that Mangan 
imports into his subject an illicit beauty. The 
Germans who had most verbal compression, 
who are most set upon a calm statement of 
things, are those who suffer most from Man- 

O J 

gan's exuberant hullabaloo. Yet sometimes in 
himself, when he is improvising, and does not 
feel bound to keep step for step, is a compres- 
sion very remarkable, and a calm more pro- 
found than their own. 

The best known, and certainly the loveliest, 
of his shorter German translations is Ruckert's 
ghazel, Und dann nicbt Mebr. Even here, 


where he keeps, physically, rather close to his 
pensive model, he adds metaphor after meta- 
phor, many a lyrical wail, and a heart-stopping 
pathos all unwarranted and new ; he seems to 
blight and then revivifv everything he touches. 

O f * J O 

Scores of times, as in Wetzel's Sebnsucbt, itself 
very like Mignon's immortal song of the far-off 
land and of the spiritual longing to turn thither, 
Mangan deliberately transposes and vanes his 
theme. He matches Wetzel's graceful eight 


lines with twenty-five of his own, melodiously 
overlapping, and of extraordinary sweetness, in 

"Morn and eve a star invites me, 
One imploring silver star, 
Wooes me, calls me, lures me, lights me, 
To the desert deeps afar," 

with a persistence remote as the " imploring 
star" itself from good Wetzel's imagination. 
Still more transformed are the wild and mov- 
ing measures of The Last Words of Al Has- 
san, which purport to belong to " one Heyden, 
a name unfamiliar to our ears," and to be 
found in Wolff's Hausscbatz, " the repertory 
of an incredible quantity of middling poetry." 
Mark the artful depreciation of the German 
volume, as if to fright a possible speculator 
in Manganese ! If any one hungers for a 
thorough insight into Mangan's method, he 
cannot do better than to open the bulky 
flausschat'z (in all of whose editions, however, 
Hassan, by Friedrich August von Heyden, 
does not figure), and read over the six stanzas 
of stout commonplace which contain the 
straightforward remarks of a worsted Bedouin. 
Not a reference in them does Mangan repro- 
duce, except the profaned Kaaba, the " black- 
ringleted " unfaithful mistress, the desert wind. 


He throws away Heyden's deserted tents, the 
captive women, the wounded and weary horses, 
the scattered sheep and shepherd : all the 
imagery of war and defeat which carry out a 
pictorial and romantic tradition. What he 
substitutes is so utterly alien to these that no 
human being could refer it to Heyden's Hassan 
at all, unless Mangan had chosen to indicate 
the source of his inspiration. Heyden ends : 

"Nimm bin dies letze Griisscn. 
Was kam hat kommen mussen: 
Nur Allah's Macht besteht ; 
Gelobt sei der Prophet ! " 

This is worth while being considered as the 
sub-structure of 

"The wasted moon has a marvellous look 
Amiddle of the starry hordes ; 
The heavens, too, shine like a mystic book 
All bright with burning words ; 
The mists of the dawn begin to dislimn 
Zahara's castle of sand : 
Farewell, farewell ! Mine eyes feel dim, 
They turn to the lampless land, 
'Llah Hu! 

My heart is weary, mine eves arc dim ; 
I will rest in the dark, dark land." 

Mangan's Hassan, moreover, is richly em- 
broidered with geographical detail. He had a 


fine sense for the uses of proper names, and 
displayed vague attractions for the region after- 
wards surveyed by Mr. Matthew Arnold, 
whose yellow Oxus and star-lighted Aral Sea 
no reader of this generation is likely to forget. 
But aKpifitia, unerring nicety founded on fore- 
thought and research, was not among Mangan's 
natural virtues. He invents neighborhoods 
and coasts ; he couples cheerfully towns two 
thousand miles apart, and even reaches over 
into another continent for a gem of a substan- 
tive to deck his languorous Asian lines. But 
poetry, after all, is so much finer than gazet- 
teers ! he seems to insinuate. 

The truth is, Clarence Mangan is no trans- 
lator at all. He is dominated by his own gen- 
uine erratic force, which throve under evil 
conditions, and had no clear outlet ; and he 
cannot contain the ebullition of his natural 
speech even in the majestic presence of Goethe. 
His mind is not serviceable ; he can give an 
able and courteous co-operation only when the 
demigod chances to agree with his native fire. 
The most striking internal evidence that he 


had not in him the first instinct of the transla- 
tor, is that he approaches Heine (whose abrupt 
beauty, if indeed it be conveyable at all, Man- 
gan in his trustier mood was curiously well 
fitted to convey into English), in order to 


appraise him as " darkly diabolical," and to 
deplore his " melancholy misdirection of glori- 
ous faculties." As it was, Mangan wasted on 
the dreams of anybody else the time he was 
forbidden to devote to the inspirations of his 
own brain. It was his misfortune, his punish- 
ment also, that with the early loss of enthusi- 
asm, and " that true tranquil perception of the 
beautiful," which, as he himself feelingly says 
of an elder writer, " a life led according to the 
rules of the divine law alone can confer on 
man," there came an autumnal decadence : a 
sinking from the exercise of the creative faculty 
to that of the critical ; a relinquishment of the 
highest intellectual mood, which was his birth- 
right, for that of the spectator, the sceptic, the 
jaded philosopher. He recanted his belief in 
his own powers, and having done that, he held 
a false but consistent way. The things he 
accomplished in literature have the look of acci- 
dents and commentaries, as he wished ; the pride 
of his whole shadowed career was to figure in a 
mask unworthy of him. In such a spirit of 
evasion he took to his inexplicable trade of 
translating: accepting a suggestion, and scorn- 
fully elaborating; it, or ironically referring to 
the gardens of Ispahan his own roses, whose 
color seemed too startling for the banks of the 



The question of Mangan's Oriental " trans- 
lations " is one of keen interest. He is not 
known to lovers of poetry, because he played 
tricks masterly as any of Chatterton's, and be- 
cause, unfortunately for the vindication of his 
genius, his tricks have never been discovered 
and explained, when they were suspected ; and 
some who have written of him have left it to 
be inferred that he was more of a wiseacre, 
and less of an organic force, than he was. His 
obliging labor of transposing the Welsh, Da- 
nish, Frisian, Swedish, Russian, and Bohemian 
(for he solemnly pretends to deal in all of 
these) is pure blague. If Mangan had had the 
polyglot acquirements of his adored Maginn 
and of Father Prout, he would have rivalled 
their gigantic jokes on the general reader. 
Latin and three of the current European 
tongues he knew, though not with equal 
thoroughness, and he quoted Greek, possibly 
at first hand. He had exceptional opportuni- 
ties, in the library of Trinity, for linguistic 
study, and once went out of his way to bear 
witness that our own tongue is nobler than 
them all ; but it seems plain that he was no 
better versed in the eldest literatures than in 
Gaelic. He was not, of course, absolutely 


ignorant of their .nature. In an elegy on 
Sarsfield, put into English, Mangan singled out 
two lines of primitive vehemence touching the 
slain Jacobite general, Jerome ; and after giv- 
ing the original Irish in a footnote, he adds : 
" This is one of those peculiarly powerful 
forms of expression to which I find no parallel 
except in the Arabic language." So that he 
would, presumably, have us believe he knew 
what Arabic was made of, even if he could not 
parse it. In this same spirit, he once gravely 
contradicted the dean of Orientalists, Sir Will- 
iam Jones. And again, in the course of a 
contemptuous review in The Dublin University 
Magazine for March, 1838, he breaks off with 
- " Enough of so ungracious a theme." (The 
theme is Hammer- Purgstall's Turkish Poetry.} 
" We must see whether it be not practicable to 
exhibit the Ottoman Muse in apparel some- 
what more attractive than that which decorates 
her here ! " The Schlegels, .Herder, Ruckert, 
and others whom Mangan read, were full of 
Oriental influences, direct or indirect. He was 
a voracious student of De Sacy and Galland, of 
Fundgruben des Orients, and of d'Herbelot's Ori- 
ental Catalogue. During the earlier half of the 
century, the eyes of scholars were turned often 
to the East. By 1830 there was enough of it 
reflected in German letters, enough even in 


the spurious bulbuls of Lalla Rookb, to supply 
a man of nimble apprehension like Mangan, 

"sagacious of his quarry from afar," 

with his personal visions. He expressly states 
somewhere that he dislikes the Orientals for 
their mysticism. Meanwhile, on a fine mys- 
tical principle, he approximates them, he has 
sympathies with them. He has all the sense 
of awe and horror, the joy in action and the 
memory of action, the bright fatalism, of a 
Mussulman. Whenever he puts on a turban, 
natural to him as was the himation to Keats, 
mischief is afoot. He did not wear it " for 
the grandeur of the thing," like a greater poet, 
poor Collins, who, in his last days, confessed 
to the Wartons his suspicion that his Oriental 
Eclogues were, rather, his Irish Eclogues. 
" Translation's so feasible ! " Mangan exclaims 
in a jolly passage wherein he blames other 
bards who do not dedicate themselves, for the 
hungry public's sake, to that excellent diver- 
sion. Lamb himself had no more fun out of 
Ritson and juhn Scott the Quaker, than Man- 
gan has out of his poems by Selber, with notes 
by Dr. Berri Abel Hummer. The nomenclat- 
ure of some of his puppets is quite too danng. 
Berri Abel, Ben Daood, and Bham-Booz-eel 
are bad enough, but Baugtrauter is notorious. 


He declared continually that his " translations " 
were not rigidly exact, or he refused altogether 
to gratify the curiosity of his audience. " It is 
the course that liberal feeling dictates,'' he says, 
with a strict humor worthy of Newman, " to let 
them suppose what they like." And all the 
time he is enriching them and cheating himself, 
adorning the annals of reversed forgery, and 
cutting off from the circulation of his mother- 
tongue some of its most original accents. He 
produced several Ottoman " proverbs," in the 
September of 1837, which are the everyday 
saws of our western civilization served with 
spice. Reduced to their lowest terms, these 
mystical mouthings grin at one like a bottled 
imp. " Speech is Silver, but Silence is 
Golden," they say ; " Enough is as good as a 
Feast"; "The Pot calls the Kettle Black"; 
" A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two in the 
Bush " ! Mangan took tremendous delight in 
throwing dust in devoted eyes. It is within 
reason that in his roaring stanzas dedicated To 
the Ingleeze Khafir^ Djaun Bool Djenkinzun, 
the dear and dunderheaded gentleman ad- 
dressed might miss the point altogether. It 
would not be so conceivable that he hood- 
winked also the Trinity Fellows at his elbow, 
were it not for two considerations. In the 
first place, nobody was especially well ac- 


quainted with him ; he was intangible. As 
none could affirm with authority whether he 
had but one coat in his wardrobe, or where 
and how he kept his distressing relatives ; so 
none could track his elusive mental habits, and 
say, " This knowledge, and not that, has he 
acquired." Again, specialists do not grow on 
every bush, even in Trinity. The names of 
authors whom he cited, Mehisi, Kemal-Oomi, 
Baba Khodjee, Selim-il-Anagh, Mustafa Reezah, 
Burhan-ed-Deen, Mohammed Ben Osman, Ben 
AH Nakkash (may their tribe decrease !) were 
not illuminating ; neither were the mottoes in 
good Arabic, but somewhat irrelevant to their 
purpose, with which he prefaced his apocrypha. 
He attributes one strain to a sixteenth-century 
Zirbayeh, another to Lameejah, a third to a 
phonetic nightingale called Waheedi. He ab- 
stracts from a manuscript in possession of " the 
queen of Transoxiana " one of the loveliest of 
his songs, and fathers it upon Al Makeenah, a 
fighting bard of his fancy. Once he was 
brought to task for concealing himself under 
the cloak of Hafiz, whereupon he replied that 
any critic could discern that the verses were 
only Hafiz ! His custom was to leave Hafiz 
alone, with Saadi and Omar, these being per- 
sons somewhat familiar to the general. The 
poets he courts arc more preciously private to 


himself than ever Cyril Tourneur was, years 
ago, to the elect. Some of their names stand 
out memorably bright, and only just beneath 
those of the splendid phantom Mirza Schaffy, 
and the Haji-Abdu el-Yezdi, who had some 
reality so long as Sir Richard Burton lived. 
The attention of a competent Orientalist may 
never have been drawn to specifications which 
would at once throw the unwary off the trail ; 
but it is likely that they passed with modest 
minor scholars who would have suspected any- 
body of this roguery sooner than innocent be- 
spectacled Mangan. 

It is as a son of the Prophet that he claims 
his full applause. Al Hassan is more than 
equalled by The Wail and Warning of the Three 
Kbalendeers (which Thackeray would have rel- 
ished had he known it), by The Time of the 
Barmecides^ the vehement Howling Song of Al 
Mohara, and others, drawn, like these, from the 
impossible Persian, and many of which are only 
to be found scattered up and down the capi- 
tal-lettered yellow pages of extinct provincial 

It is more than likely that his taste for East- 
ern poetry, gratified under such ironic condi- 
tions, was in Mangan a reaction from the little 
he knew of the bardic antiquities of his own 
Ireland; for lie appears to have been much at- 


tracted to Vallencey's most tenable theory that 
the Milesians were the lost tribe of Israel. The 
all-but-identity of the typical Turkish wail : 

" Wulla-hu, wulwulla-hu ! " 
with the more melodious Gaelic 
" Ullu, ullalu ! " 

fascinated him ; and he used both rather too 
freely. Working on Shane O'Golain's Lament 
in 1848 he took fire, at three o'clock of a Fri- 
day morning, and resolved to give as good as 
he got. " I will shortly send you," he writes 
to his patron, " a funeral wail from the Turkish, 
on the decease of one of the Sultans. The 
spirit of the composition closely resembles what 
we meet with in similar Irish poems." (Marry 
come up ! so it must, slyest of Mangans.) This 
was probably the Elegy for Sulieman the Magnifi- 
cent, a fairly unimpressive production. With 
his genius for analogies, the " translator" found 
ancient Irish, at second-hand, as Oriental as 
need be. Adjurations, apostrophes, superla- 
tives, monotones, reiterations, vague but bold 
colors, belonged, as outstanding features, to 
both languages ; and to all these characteris- 
tics his own habits of speech and thought were 

What Matthew Arnold said of the Celtic 


literature in general, may apply to Mangan''s 
share in it. "It is not great poetical work; 
but it is poetry, with the air of greatness invest- 
ing it." His Eastern fictions, like most of his 
Western ones, deal usually with a mood of 
reminiscence and regret, and they have the arch 
and poignant pathos in which English song is 
not rich. The mournful echo of days gone by, 
the light tingeing a present cloud from the ab- 
sent sun, are everywhere in Mangan's world. 
He looks back forever, not with moping, but 
with a certain shrewd sense of triumph and 
heartiness. He embraces the tragical to-day, 
like Pascal's crushed and thinking reed of 
mankind, parce quil salt quil meurt, et I'avan- 
tage que /'univers a sur lui : I* univers ri en sait 
rien. He delivers a lament as if it were a 
cheer ; in his strange temperament they blend 
in one. It is clear to posterity that this look- 
ing back on rosy hours is a sham, a poet's 
fantasy. What idyllic yesterday cradled and 
reared so ill-adventured a soul ? Out of his 
imagination his " rich Bagdad " never existed ; 
though it be cherished there as only the soli- 
tary and disregarded intelligence can cherish its 
ideal, he is lord of it yet, and can bid it van- 
ish, at one imperious gesture of relinquishment. 
Down tumbles Bagdad ! The crash thereof is 
in the public ears; and who will refuse to be- 


lieve that there was a Clarence Mangan who 
knew something of the blessed Orient, some- 
thing, too, of felicity, even though it passed ? 


With his provoking banter, in April of 1 840, 
he calls attention, in a magazine, to The Time of 
the Barmecides, a composition of his own, which 
he had given to the same pages just a year 
before, and which he had bettered infinitely, 
meanwhile, by a few discreet touches. Start- 
ing off with a motto (obviously of his own 
manufacture), that 

" There runs thro' all the dells of Time 
No stream like Youth again," 

he proceeds to explain the second appearance 
of his favored lyric. "It was published some 
months back, but in such suspicious company 
that it probably remained unread, except by 
the very few persons who have always believed 
us too honorable to attempt imposing on or 
mystifying the public. We now, therefore, 
take the liberty of reintroducing the poem to 
general notice, embellished with improvements, 
merely premising that if any lady or gentle- 
man wishes to have a copy of the original (or, 


indeed, of any originals of our oversettings), 
we are quite ready to come forward and treat : 
terms cash, except to young ladies." With 
talk of such vain and transparent nonsense, 
Mangan attempts to parry his rightful praise. 
He would have us think that to his laborious 
searching and transcribing, " with the help," as 
he says, of "punch and patience," we are in- 
debted for the existence of his finest work. 
But the punch is direct from Castaly's well, 
and the patience covers the rapturous drudgery 
known to all true art. What held him back 
from acknowledging his own homespun glories 
was a trait both of shyness and of perversity. 
He must have been conscious that his rhythms 
were nothing short of innovations. Nearly 
everything which bears his name has a voluptu- 
ous dance-measure which no one had written 
before: a beauty so novel and compelling, 
that it is remarkable it has lacked recognition. 
With characteristic shrinking, Mangan sealed 
his charter of merit to supposititious ancients 
and aliens. Perspicacious readers are besought 
to consider it less likely that in one poet was 
a voice of such individuality that it breaks 
forth through a hundred disguises, than that 
bards resident through the ages in the four 
zones, Jew and Gentile, 

" Bold Plutarch, Neptune, and Nicodemus," 


are the co-heirs of the self-same astonishing 
style. Wits were at work on him, even as on 
a rebus, long before he died. Some anony- 
mous writer, aware of a new sound when he 
heard it, addressed to him an apostrophe not 
idle, since it shows that the sagacious race of 
mousers abides always and everywhere, and 
that, according to a metaphysical truism made 
famous by President Lincoln's homely adapta- 
tion of it, no one person can deceive all: 

" Various and curious are thy strains, O Clarence 


Rhyming and chim : ng in a very odd way; 
Rhyming and chiming ! and the like of them no 

man can 
Easily find in a long summer's day." 

Mangan's shibboleth is the refrain. The re- 
frain is characteristic, in some shape or other, 
of all old poetry. It belongs to Judea and 
Greece, no less than to northern France, to 
the England of the Percy Reliques, and the Per- 
sianized Germany of Mangan's study. After a 
long lapse, it had its first full modern use in 
The Ancient Mariner, and in the peculiar cadence 
of all Coleridge's stops and keys. The fact 
that at divers periods, fashions of thoughts and 
speech infect the air, is a vindication ot many 
laurelled heads; for it is a theory which pinches 

A STUDY 1 01 

nobody. Almost on the same morning, within 
twenty years of Coleridge's retirement to High- 
gate, Mrs. Browning, Mangan, and Edgar Allan 
Poe were involuntarily conspiring to fix and 
perpetuate a poetic accident, destined to its 
subtlest and not wholly unforeseen collateral 
development in Rossetti. Among these, Mrs. 
Browning invented and foreshadowed much, 
but with a light hand. Poe's ringing of the 
word-changes is, on the other hand, so bold, 
that any successor who approximates his man- 
ner is sure now of smiling detection and dis- 
couragement. Whatever recalls 

" Come, let the burial rite be read, 
The funeral song be sung ! 
An anthem for the queenliest dead 
That ever died so young ; 
A dirge for her, the doubly dead, 
In that she died so young," 

is all very fine, we say, but it will not do ; 
the thing was done to perfection once : we 
must let Poe reign in his own kingdom. Let 
us have a care lest we are letting Poe reign in 
Mangan's kingdom. The unmistakable mark 
of Poe's maturer poetry, the employment of 
sonorous successive lines which cunningly fall 
short ot exact duplication, belong also to Man- 
gan, in the same degree. There is this 


of his, for instance, in the reverie of the way- 
farer beside the river Mourne, who longs for 
everlasting rest delayed, and who hears, in an- 
swer, a prophetic voice from the martyred tree 
in the saw-mill : 

" ' For this grieve not ; thou knowest what thanks 
The weary-souled and the meek owe 
To Death! ' I awoke, and heard four planks 
Fall down with a saddening echo, 
I heard four planks 
Fall down with a hollow echo ! " 

And one verse out of the powerful many which 
bear the burden of " Karaman ! " will serve to 
illustrate the point yet more clearly : 

" I was mild as milk till then, 
I was soft as silk till then ; 
Now my breast is like a den, 
Karaman ! 

Foul with blood and bones of men, 
Karaman ! 

With blood and bones of slaughtered men, 
Karaman, O Karaman ! " 

Were it not for the imperfect rhyme in the 
Saw-Mill stanza, any critic would attribute all 
the lines cited to Poe, both for manner, and 
for perfect mastery of ghastly detail. 

It happens that the Muse over in Dublin 
has the advantage of priority. Foe's maiden 

A STUDY 103 

work has not the lovely tautology which has 
since been associated with his name. Judging 
by the pains which he took to dissect the rain- 
bow of his genius in his Philosophy of Corn-posi- 
tion^ he would have us assured that The Raven 
was his earliest experiment in the values of that 
saying-over or singing-over which, like a looped 
ribbon, flutters about the close of so many of 
his posthumous verses. Moreover, The Raven 
was "only that and nothing more." Poe's 
own thrilling tale of Ligeia, dating from 1838, 
provided every one of the " properties " essen- 
tial to the effect of The Raven, and even the 
same psychological situation. It is not incon- 
ceivable that the prose was converted into 
poetry, exclusively for the purpose of trying a 
rash harmonic experiment on an approved in- 
strument. At any rate, the element in the 
great lyric which was not already in Ligeia, is 
precisely this haunting iteration of sweet sounds. 
The Raven was first published anonymously in 
the January of 184^. It spread like wildfire in 
America, and reached London the next year. 
In a letter to Foe, dated April, 1846, Miss 
Elizabeth Barrett Barrett says : " Your Raven 
has produced a sensation, a 'fit of horror,' here 
in England. Some ot my friends are taken by 

c_ > , , 

the fear ot it, and some by the music." The 
English parodies of it, which would certify 


that it was popular and familiar, began in 
1853. Ulalume appeared in Colt on s Re-view, 
in 1847; an d it may be considered as the 
perfect blossom of Poe's acquired tendencies. 
Lenore, first intoned as A Pecan (1831), came 
out in Mr. James Russell Lowell's journal, The 
Pioneer, in 1843. It is instructive to observe 
that it has not, there, a single touch of the 
repetitions which now give it such memorable 
glamour ; the repetitions were superadded later 
and on second thought. Now Mangan, from 
1839 an d 1840 on, bestowed on almost every- 
thing he wrote the curious involved diction in 
question. Two poems of his in particular, 
which have mere extrinsic value, may therefore 
yield up their opening stanzas as arch-speci- 
mens. The Winniger IVinebouse, we are told, 
is "slightly improved from Hoffmann of Fall- 
ersleben." The Kiosk of Moostanzar-BUlah has 
no historv. 

" Hurrah for the Winnieer Winchouse, 
The sanded Winniger Winehouse ! 
Eighteen of us meet in a circle, and treat 
Each other all day at the Winchouse. 
As thinking but doubles men's troubles, 
'Tis shirked in the emerald parlor ; 
Tho' banks be broken and war lour, 
We've eyes alone tor such bubbles 

A STUDY 105 

As wink on our cups in the Winehouse, 
Our golden cups in the Winehouse, 
(As poets would feign !) but 'tis glasses we drain 
In the sanded Winniger Winehouse ! " 

" The pall of the sunset fell 
Vermilioning earth and water; 
The bulbul's melody broke from the dell, 
A song to the rose, the summer's daughter ! 
The lulling music of Tigris' flow 
Was blended with echoes from many a mosque 
As the muezzin chanted the Allah-el-illah : 
Yet my heart in that hour was low, 
For I stood in a ruined Kiosk: 

my heart in that hour was low 
For I stood in the ruined Kiosk 
Of the Caliph Moostanzar-Billah; 

1 mused alone in the ruined Kiosk 
Of the mighty Moostanzar-Billah." 

The same emphatic notes occur in The Three 
Talismans, The Wayfaring Tree, The Saw-Mill, 
and The Karamanian Exile ; in The Last Words 
of Al Hassan, and in the very different and very 
beautiful Time of the Barmecides; in The Wail 
and Warning of the Three Khalendeers, and in 
My Dark Rosaleen ; and something not far 
from them in Night is Neariug, Twentv Golden 
Tears ago, The Time ere the Roses were Blowing, 


and The Howling Song. Indeed, it is difficult 
to quote from him at all and not detect the ac- 
cent associated forever with Poe. Under cover 
of his spurious Orientalism, Mangan allowed 
himself much autobiographical utterance ; and 
he found it convenient, as an Oriental middle- 
man, to introduce, and to fully develop, with- 
out suspicion from outsiders, his ornate original 
da capo. Indeed, one sometimes feels quite 
certain that he was a practising Mussulman 
only for the sake of it. In The Dervish and 
the Vizier, Mangan is his own superexcellent 
parodist : here he breaks into a ridiculous ex- 
aggeration of the refrain, in a comic narrative 
of great gusto. Having once mastered his in- 
vention, Mangan, in the end, came near being 
mastered by it. He imported a sort of stam- 
mering into many of his renderings from foreign 
languages, to the conceivable amazement of 
dead authors ; and the catch-word of a stanza 
was often multiplied until it attained the nu- 
merical importance of Mozart's triumphant 
Amens. No one will deny that the Schwertlied 
itself gains by this vandalism. Foe, in this re- 
spect, is merely Manganesque. In The Dublin 
University Magazine, during the years when 
Poe was attaining his zenith of success, figure 
successive specimens of the unchanged art of 
the man who had the start of him by at least 

A STUDY 107 

five years ; for The Barmecides was in print in 
1839, an d The Karamanian Exile, a finished 
model of its kind, was contemporary with the 
as yet cisatlantic Raven, and the predecessor of 
Ulalume, Lenore, Eulalie, For Annie, and the 
rest. Coleridge's is too great a name by which 
to measure, and Mrs. Browning is an influence 
apart, when one comes to scrutinize the neck- 
and-neck achievements of Mangan and Poe. 

Mr. Joseph Skipsey openly implies that Poe 
fell across Mangan's experimental measures 
during his own editorial and journalistic career. 
The proposition might have more weight, 
coming from a more cautious pen ; yet it is a 
practicable guess, did one care to entertain it. 
The American's thrift and hardihood, his 
known accomplishment of buccaneering, benefi- 
cent as it chanced to be in the application, 
helped him to adopt and bring into notice any 
reform perishing in obscure hands. Thus he 
supplemented the octosyllabic cadences of Lady 
Geraldines Courtship in 

" The silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 

with a patrician aggressiveness never to be con- 
founded with common theft. On the other 
side, no arraignment of this sort can be brought 
against poor chivalrous Mangan which would 


not be a chronological absurdity. Coleridge 
the forerunner might have pushed his verbal 
practice farther ; but he lacked the sensational- 
ism which is a noble ingredient if used spar- 
ingly and in season, and of which Mangan and 
Poe, beyond all doubt, were possessed. Now, 
it is not to be forgotten that one of these two 
lived and died, as it were, in a hole ; that at 
no time was he in the current of events, or so 
placed, withdrawn in the violet shadow of the 
Wicklow Hills, that he could and would scan 
even the near English horizon. It was the 
business of the other to sit in a watch-tower, 

"Where Helicon breaks down 
In cliff to the sea." 

Poe, if it may be said respectfully, was what the 
Gypsies call a jinney-mengro : one-who-knows- 
what - is -up -and - cannot - be - gulled. Under 
circumstances comparatively kind, from an offi- 
cial chair, and with the bravery which is half 
the battle, he bequeathed to the soil of Eng- 
lish literature a hitherto exotic beauty. It is 
unnecessary to ask whether he learned his lyric 
latitude of phrase from The Dublin University 
Magazine. But Clarence Mangan, shrinking 
like the Thane before the supernatural "All 
hail hereafter ! " is the true founder, neverthe- 

A STUDY 109 

less, of the most picturesque feature in modern 

While Poe links himself for good with his 
immediate predecessors in The Haunted Palace^ 
The City by the Sea, and the opening of Al 
Aaraaf, and so falls gracefully into his dynastic 
place, Mangan has wayward secondary leanings, 
sometimes to the whimsical, affectionate temper 
of Beranger, sometimes to the bare strength 
of the Elizabethans themselves, as in his lines 
where Fate 

"Tolls the disastrous bell of all our years," 
a line as unlike as possible to 

" Helen, thy beauty is to me 
Like those Nicean barks of yore." 

He is addicted to compound words ; and in 
such mongrel usages as " youthhood," "gloom- 
somely," and " aptliest," he makes straight for 
the pitfalls dug for the radiant intelligence 
of Mrs. Browning. Poe is too " dainty, airy, 
amber-bright," for sophomoric blunders, for 
wretched puns, for breathless haste, for dactyls 
maimed and scarred in the wars. He never 
makes Mangan's lunges; his every oesural 
pause is fixed by conclave of the Muses. And 
there is over all his entrancing work an air of 



incomparable self-attentiveness, a touch of sat- 
isfied completion, as of a coquette blen cbaussee, 
bien gant'ee. The other's charm is less urban : 

"A winning wave, deserving note, 
In the tempestuous petticoat." 

The two Celts had much, very much, in com- 
mon ; Poe's Attic taste, sprung from his fortu- 
nate training, is responsible for most of the 
difference. To affirm of him, as has often 
been done, that he worshipped beauty with his 
whole soul ; that he loved the occult sciences, 
the phrenologists, and the old mystics ; that his 
existence was but an affecting struggle with the 
adversaries of darkness ; even that he was of a 
frail physique, his forehead high and pale, the 
lower part of his face sensitive and dejected ; 
this is to describe Mangan equally well. They 
had kindred dreams ; they were haunted by the 
same loathing of the " dishonor of the grave " ; 
they died, under almost identical circumstances 
of pain and mystery, in the same year. Their 
respective sense of humor was unevenly appor- 
tioned. In point of achievement, too, or of the 
forces which make achievement possible, they 
are hardly to be compared. Poe was ever the 
artist ; his imagination was not only sumptu- 
ous, but steadfast ; his utterances were fewer, 
and had finality. In the moral contrast, it is 


the Irish poet who gains. Poe, with his mani- 
fold gifts (if we may pervert the terms of Lamb's 
theological thesis not " defended or oppugned, 
or both, at Leipsic or Gottingen") was " of the 
highest order of the seraphim illuminati who 
sneer." He nursed grudges and hungered for 
homage ; he was seldom so happy as in a thriv- 
ing quarrel. Mangan was a pattern of sweet 
gratitude and deference, and left his art to 
prosper or perish, as Heaven should please. 

In 1803, the year of Mangan's birth, Mrs. 
Hemans printed her first verses, and Moore, 
already a popular young minstrel, was commis- 
sioned to be Admiralty Registrar at Bermuda. 
The Lyrical Ballads had sunk, softly as a snow- 
flake, into the earth one twelvemonth before. 
Mangan's early youth was the flowering-time 
of Keats, Shelley, and Byron ; and he was 
writing for penny journals while the new minor 
notes, Hood's, Praed's, Moore's, were filling 
the air. He died, not companionless, with 
Emily Bronte, Hartley Coleridge, and Thomas 
Lovell Beddoes, in i 849 : three spirits ot lav- 
ish promise, defrauded and unfulfilled like his 
own, yet happier than he, inasmuch as they 
have had since many liegemen and remember- 
ers. Let him come forward at last in a quieter 
hour, with his own whimsical misgiving man- 


ner, or with questions pathetically irrelevant, as 
one whom the fairies had led astray : 

"O sayest thou the soul shall climb 
The magic mount she trod of old, 
Ere childhood's time ? " 

He has been, for a half-century, wandering 
on the dark marge of Lethe. It will not do, 
as yet, to startle him with gross applause. 
Otherwise, his gratified editor would like to 
repeat, introducing Clarence Mangan, the gal- 
lant words with which Schumann once began a 
review of the young Chopin : " Hats off, gen- 
tlemen : a Genius ! " 

My Dark Rosaleen 

And Other Translations from the Gaelic 



my Dark Rosaleen, 
Do not sigh, do not weep ! 

The priests are on the ocean green, 

They march along the deep. 

There's wine from the royal Pope 

Upon the ocean green ; 

And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 

Shall give you health, and help, and hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen! 

Over hills and thro' dales, 
Have I roamed for your sake; 
All yesterday I sailed with sails 
On river and on lake. 
The Erne at its highest flood 

1 dashed across unseen, 

1 This impassioned song, entitled, in the original, Raisin Dubb, or The 
Black-Haired Little Rose, was written in the reign of Elizabeth by one of the 
poets of the celebrated Tyrconnellian chieftain, Hugh the Red O'Donnell. 
It purports to be an allegorical address from Hugh to Ireland on the subject 
of his love and struggles for her. and his resolve to raise her again to the 
glorious position she held as a nation, before the irruption of the Saxon and 
Norman spoilers. 

[All the notes at the bottom of the page in this book are Mangan's own. 
Figures in parentheses refer to rhe Editor's notes at the end of the book.] 


For there was lightning in my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

O there was lightning in my blood, 

Red lightning lightened thro' my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

All day long, in unrest, 

To and fro, do I move. 

The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, love! 

The heart in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my queen, 

My life of life, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 

My life, my love, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Woe and pain, pain and woe, 

Are my lot, night and noon, 

To see your bright face clouded so, 

Like to the mournful moon. 

But yet will I rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen; 

'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 

'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 


Over dews, over sands, 

Will I fly for your weal : 

Your holy delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 

At home in your emerald bowers, 

From morning's dawn till e'en, 

You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 

You'll think of me thro' daylight hours, 

My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

I could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills, 

O I could kneel all night in prayer, 

To heal your many ills ! 

And one beamy smile from you 

Would float like light between 

My toils and me, my own, my true, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 

Would give me life and soul anew, 

A second life, a soul anew, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

O the Erne shall run red 

With redundance of blood, 

The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 

And flames wrap hill and wood, 

And gun-peal and slogan-cry 

Wake many a glen serene, 


Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, 

Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 


I found in Innisfail the fair, 

In Ireland, while in exile there, 

Women of worth, both grave and gay men, 

Many clerics and many laymen. 

I travelled its fruitful provinces round, 
And in every one of the five I found, 
Alike in church and in palace hall, 
Abundant apparel, and food for all. 

Gold and silver I found in money ; 
Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey ; 
I found God's people rich in pity, 
Found many a feast, and many a city. 

I also found in Armagh the splendid, 
Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, 

1 Amongst the Anglo-Saxon students resorting to Ireland was Prince 
Aldfrid, afterwards King of the Northumbrian Saxons. His having been 
educated there about the year 684 is corroborated by Venerable Bedc in his 
Life of $>. Cutbbert. The original poem of which this is a translation, 
attributed to Aldfrid, is still extant in the Irish language. 


Fasting, as Christ hath recommended, 
And noble councillors untranscended. 

I found in each great church moreo'er, 
Whether on island or on shore, 
Piety, learning, fond affection, 
Holy welcome and kind protection. 

I found the good lay monks and brothers 
Ever beseeching help for others, 
And, in their keeping, the Holy Word 
Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord. 

I found in Munster unfettered of any, 
Kings, and queens, and poets a many, 
Poets well-skilled in music and measure; 
Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure. 

I found in Connaught the just, redundance 
Of riches, milk in lavish abundance; 
Hospitality, vigor, fame, 
In Cruachan's * land of heroic name. 

I found in the country of Connall 2 the glorious, 
Bravest heroes ever victorious ; 
Fair-complexioned men and warlike, 
Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike ! 

I found in Ulster from hill to glen, 
Hardy warriors, resolute men ; 

1 Cruachan, or Croglian, was the name of" the royal palace of Connaught. 

2 Tyrconnell, the present Donegal. 


Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone, 
And strength transmitted from sire to son. 

I found in the noble district of Boyle, 
(MS. here illegible.) 
Brehons, Erenachs, 1 weapons bright, 
And horsemen bold and sudden in fight. 

I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, 
From Dublin to Slewmargy's 2 peak, 
Flourishing pastures, valor, health, 
Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth. 

I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, 
In the broad rich country of Ossorie, 
Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, 
Great chess-players, men of truthful speech. 

I found in Meath's fair principality 
Virtue, vigor, and hospitality ; 
Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity, 
Ireland's bulwark and security. 

I found strict morals in age and youth, 
I found historians recording truth ; 
The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, 
I found them all. I have written sooth. 3 

1 Brehon, a law judge ; Erenach, a ruler, an archdeacon. 

1 Slewmargy, a mountain in the (Queen's County, near the river Barrow. 

8 " Bede assures us that the Irish were a harmless and friendly people. 
To them many of the Angles had been accustomed to resort in search of 
knowledge, and on all occasions had been received and supported gratuitously. 
Aldfrid lived in spontaneous exile among the Scots ( Irish ) through his de- 
sire of knowledge, and was called to the throne of Northurnbria after the 
decease of his brother Egfrid in 685." Lingard* i England, vol. i. chap. 3. 




O where, Kinkora ! is Brian the Great, 

And where is the beauty that once was thine ? 

O where are the princes and nobles that sate 

At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine ? 

Where, O Kinkora ? 

O where, Kinkora! are thy valorous lords? 

O whither, thou hospitable! are they gone? 

O where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords ? 2 

And where are the warriors Brian led on ? 

Where, O Kinkora ? 

And where is Morrough, the descendant of kings, 
The defeater of a hundred, the daringly brave, 
Who set but slight store by jewels and rings, 
Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave ? 
Where, O Kinkora? 

And where is Donogh, King Brian's, worthy son ? 
And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief? 

1 This poem is ascribed to Mac-Liag, the secretary of Brian Boruimha, 
who fell at the battle of Clontarf, in 1014; ant ^ the subject of it is a lamen- 
tation for the fallen condition of Kinkora, the palace of that monarch, con- 
sequent on his death. The decease of Mac-Liag is recorded in the ^'Annah 
of the Four Masters,''' as having taken place in 1015. A great number of 
his poems are still in existence, but none of them has obtained a popularity 
so widely extended as his Larr-.tnt. The palace of Kinkora, which was 
situated on the banks of the Shannon, near Killaloe, is now a heap of ruins. 

2 C^lg n-or, or the swords uf Gold, i.e. of the Gijld-biltcd Swords. 


And Kian and Core? Alas! they are gone: 
They have left me this night alone wkh my grief! 
Left me, Kinkora! 

And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth ? 
The sons never-vanquished of Evin the brave, 
The great King of Osnacht, renowned for his worth, 
And the hosts of Baskinn from the western wave ? 
Where, O Kinkora ? 

O where is Duvlann of the swift-footed steeds ? 
And where is Kian who was son of Molloy ? 
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds 
In the red battle-field no time can destroy ? 
Where, O Kinkora ? 

And where is that youth of majestic height, 

The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots ? Even he, 

As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might, 

Was tributary, Kinkora, to thee ! 

Thee, O Kinkora ! 

They are gone, those heroes of royal birth 
Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust ; 
'Tis weary for me to be living on earth 
When they, O Kinkora, lie low in the dust. 
Low, O Kinkora ! 

O never again will princes appear, 

To rival the Dalcassians * of the cleaving swords ; 

1 The Dalcassians wi-re Brian's body-guard. 


I can never dream of meeting afar or anear, 
In the east or the west, such heroes and lords ! 
Never, Kinkora ! 

dear are the images my memory calls up 
Of Brian Boru ! how he never would miss 

To give me at the banquet, the first bright cup. 
Ah ! why did he heap on me honor like this ? 
Why, O' Kinkora ? 

1 am Mac-Liag, and my home is on the lake : 
Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled, 
Came Brian to ask me, and I went for his sake. 
O my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead ! 
Dead, O Kinkora ! 


At Tara to-day, in this awful hour, 

I call on the Holy Trinity ! 

Glorv to Him who reigneth in power, 

The God of the elements, Eather, and Son, 

And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, 

The ever-existing Divinity ! 

1 The original Irish oi this hymn was published by Dr. Petrie, in vol. 
xviii., " Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy." It is in the Bearla 
Feine, the most ancient dialect of the Irish, the same in which the Brehon 
laws were written. It was printed from the Liber JI\mnorum, preserved 
in the Library of Trinity College, Dublin, a manuscript, which, as Dr. 
Petrie proves by the authority of Usher and others, must be nearly twelve 
hundred and riftv vears old. 


At Tara to-day I call on the Lord, 

On Christ, the Omnipotent Word, 

Who came to redeem from death and sin 

Our fallen race ; 

And I put and I place 

The virtue that lieth and liveth in 

His Incarnation lowly, 

His Baptism pure and holy, 

His Life of toil, and tears, and affliction, 

His dolorous Death, his Crucifixion, 

His Burial, sacred and sad and lone, 

His Resurrection to life again, 

His glorious Ascension to Heaven's high throne, 

And, lastly, his future dread 

And terrible Coming to judge all men, 

Both the living and dead ; 

At Tara to-day I put and I place 

The virtue that dwells in the Seraphim's love, 

And the virtue and grace 

That are in the obedience 

And unshaken allegiance 

Of all the Archangels and Angels above, 

And in the hope of the Resurrection 

To everlasting reward and election, 


And in the prayers of the Fathers of old, 
And in the truths the Prophets foretold, 
And in the Apostles' manifold preachings, 
And in the Confessors' faith and teachings, 
And in the purity ever dwelling 
Within the immaculate Virgin's breast, 


And in the actions bright and excelling 
Of all good men, the just and the blest ; 

At Tara to-day, in this fateful hour, 

I place all Heaven with its power, 

And the sun with its brightness, 

And the snow with its whiteness, 

And fire with all the strength it hath, 

And lightning with its rapid wrath, 

And the winds with their swiftness along their path, 

And the sea with its deepness, 

And the rocks with their steepness, 

And the earth with its starkness 1 ; 

All these I place, 

By God's almighty help and grace, 

Between myself and the Powers of Darkness ! 

At Tara to-day 

May God be my stay ! 

May the strength of God now nerve me! 

May the power of God preserve me ! 

May God the Almighty be near me ! 

May God the Almighty espy me ! 

May God the Almighty hear me ! 

May God give me eloquent speech! 

May the arm of God protect me ! 

May the wisdom of God direct me! 

May God give me power to teach and to preach ! 

May the shield of God defend me ! 

1 Properly, "strength," "firmness," from the Anglo-Saxon 
' strong, stitl." 


May the host of God attend me, 
And ward me, 
And guard me 

Against the wiles of demons and devils, 
Against the temptations of vices and evils, 
Against the bad passions and wrathful will 
Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart ; 
Against every man who designs me ill, 
Whether leagued with others or plotting apart ! 

In this hour of hours, 

I place all those powers 

Between myself and every foe 

Who threatens my body and soul 

With danger or dole, 

To protect me against the evils that flow 

From lying soothsayers' incantations, 

From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations, 

From heresy's hateful innovations, 

From idolatry's rites and invocations ; 

Be those my defenders, 

Mv guards against every ban, 

And spells of smiths, and Druids, and women ; 

In fine, against every knowledge that renders 

The li<j;ht Heaven sends us dim in 


The spirit and soul of man ! 

May Christ, I pray, 

Protect me to-day 

Against poison and fire, 

Against drowning and wounding, 


That so, in His grace abounding, 
I may earn the preacher's hire ! 

Christ, as a light, 

Illumine and guide me ! 

Christ as a shield, o'ershadow and cover me ! 

Christ be under me ! Christ be over me ! 

Christ be beside me 

On left hand and right ! 

Christ be before me, behind me, about me ! 

Christ this day be within and without me ! 

Christ, the lowly and meek, 

Christ, the All-Powerful, be 

In the heart of each to whom I speak, 

In the mouth of each who speaks to me ! 

In all who draw near me, 

Or see me or hear me ! 

At Tara to-day, in this awful hour, 

I call on the Holy Trinity ! 

Glory to Him who reigneth in power, 

The God of the Elements, Father, and Son, 

And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, 

The ever-existing Divinity ! 

Salvation dwells with the Lord, 

With Christ, the Omnipotent Word : 

From generation to generation 

Grant us, C) Lord, thy grace and salvation ! 



mourn, Erin, mourn ! 
He is lost, he is dead, 

By whom thy proudest flag was borne, 

Thy bravest heroes led : 

The night-winds are uttering 

Their orisons of woe, 

The raven flaps his darkling wing 

O'er the grave of Owen Roe, 

Of him who should have been thy King, 

The noble Owen Roe. 

Alas, hapless land, 

It is ever thus with thee ; 

The eternal destinies withstand 

Thy struggle to be free. 

One after one thy champions fall, 

Thy valiant men lie low, 

And now sleeps under shroud and pall 

The gallant Owen Roe, 

The worthiest warrior of them all, 

The princely Owen Roe ! 

Where was sword, where was soul 
Like to his below the skies ? 
Ah, many a century must roll 
Ere such a chief shall rise! 

1 saw him in the battle's shock : 
Tremendous was his blow : 

As smites the sledge the anvil block, 
His blade smote the foe. 


He was a tower; a human rock 
Was mighty Owen Roe. 

Woe to us ! Guilt and wrong 

Triumph, while, to our grief, 

We raise the keen, the funeral song 

Above our fallen chief. 

The proud usurper sways with power, 

He rules in state and show, 

While we lament our fallen tower, 

Our leader, Owen Roe ; 

While we, like slaves, bow down and cower, 

And weep for Owen Roe. 

But the high will of Heaven 

Be fulfilled evermore ! 

What tho' it leaveth us bereaven 

And stricken to the core, 

Amid our groans, amid our tears, 

We still feel and know 

That we shall meet in after years 

The sainted Owen Roe : 

In after years, in brighter spheres, 

Our glorious Owen Roe ! 



Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my 

And the fair hills of Eire, O ! 



And to all that yet survive of Eibhear's tribe on earth, 
On the fair hills of Eire, O ! 
In that land so delightful the wild thrush's lay, 
Seems to pour a lament forth for Eire's decay. 
Alas, alas, why pine I a thousand miles away 
From the fair hills of Eire, O ! 

The soil is rich and soft, the air is mild and bland, 

Of the fair hills of Eire, O ! 

Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land; 

O the fair hills of Eire, O ! 

Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over 

grove ; 
Trees flourish in her glens below and on her heights 

above ; 

Ah, in heart and in soul I shall ever, ever love 
The fair hills of Eire, O ! 

A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, 

On the fair hills of Eire, O ! 

A tribe in battle's hour unused to shrink or fail 

On the fair hills of Eire, O ! 

Eor this is my lament in bitterness outpoured 

To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword : 

O woe of woes to see a foreign spoiler horde 

On the fair hills of Eire, () ! 

Broad and tall rise the cruachs in the golden morning 


On the fair hills of Eire, O ! 
O'er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey 

On the fair hills of Eire, O ' 


Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold 
The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old. 
Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold 
Are the fair hills of Eire, O ! 

The dewdrops lie bright mid the grass and yellow 


On the fair hills of Eire, O ! 

The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn 
On the fair hills of Eire, O ! 
The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below, 
The streamlets are hushed till the evening breezes 


While the waves of the Suir, noble river ! ever flow 
Neath the fair hills of Eire, O ! 

A fruitful clime is Eire's, through valley, meadow, 


And the fair hills of Eire, O ! 
The very bread of life is in the yellow grain 
On the fair hills of Eire, O ! 
Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields 
Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields, 
In the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields 
Of the Gaels, on the fair hills of Eire, O ! 



A beauty all stainless, a pearl of a maiden 

Has plunged me in trouble, and wounded my heart. 


With sorrow and gloom is my soul overladen, 

An anguish is there, that will never depart. 

I could voyage to Egypt across the deep water, 

Nor care about bidding dear Eire farewell, 

So I only might gaze on the Geraldine's daughter, 

And sit by her side in some green pleasant dell ! 

Her curling locks wave round her figure of lightness, 
All dazzling and long, like the purest of gold ; 
Her blue eyes resemble twin stars in their brightness, 
And her brow is like marble or wax to behold. 
The radiance of heaven illumines her features 
Where the snows and the rose have erected their 

throne ; 
It would seem that the sun had forgotten all 

To shine on the Geraldine's daughter alone. 

Her bosom is swan-white, her waist smooth and 


Her speech is like music, so sweet and so free. 
The feelings that glow in her noble heart lend her 
A mien and a majesty lovely to see. 
Her lips, red as berries, but riper than any, 
Would kiss away even a sorrow like mine ! 
No wonder such heroes and noblemen many 
Should cross the blue ocean to kneel at her shrine. 

She is sprung from the Geraldine race, the great 

Niece of Mileadh's sons of the Valorous Bands, 


Those heroes, the seed of the olden Phoenicians, 
Though now trodden down, without fame, without 

lands ; 

Of her ancestors flourished the Barrys and Poers, 
To the Lords of Bunratty she too is allied, 
And not a proud noble near Cashel's high towers 
But is kin to this maiden, the Geraldine's pride. 

Of Saxon or Gael there is none to excel in 
Her wisdom, her features, her figure, this fair ; 
In all she surpasses the far-famous Helen, 
Whose beauty drove thousands to death and despair. 
Whoe'er could but gaze on her aspect so noble 
Would feel from thenceforward all anguish depart; 
Yet for me 'tis, alas, my worst woe and my trouble 
That her image must always abide in my heart ! 



There was lifted up one voice of woe, 

One lament of more than mortal grief, 

Through the wide south to and fro, 

For a fallen chief. 

In the dead of night that cry thrilled thro' me; 

I looked out upon the midnight air. 


Mine own soul was all as gloomy, 
As I knelt in prayer. 

O'er Loch Gur, that night, once, twice, yea, thrice, 

Passed a wail of anguish for the brave, 

That half curdled into ice 

Its moon-mirroring wave. 

Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in 

Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine, 

And Mogeely's phantom women l 

Mourned the Geraldine ! 

Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains 
Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours, 
And Fermoy in fitful strains 
Answered from her towers. 
Youghal, Kinalmeaky, Imokilly, 
Mourned in concert, and their piercing keen 
Woke to wondering life the stilly 
Glens of Inchiquin. 

From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore 
There was fear; the traders of Ti alee 
Gathered up their golden store, 
And prepared to flee ; 

For in ship and hall, from night till morning 
Showed the first faint beamings of the sun, 
All the foreigners heard the warning 
Of the dreaded one ! 

1 Banshees. 


" This," they spake, u portendeth death to us, 
If we fly not swiftly from our fate." 
Self-conceited idiots, thus 
Ravingly to prate ! 

Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters 
Ring laments like these by shore and sea ; 
Not for churls with souls of hucksters 
Waileth our banshee ! 

For the high Milesian race alone 

Ever flows the music of her woe; 

For slain heir to bygone throne, 

And for chief laid low ! 

Hark ! . . . Again, methinks, I hear her weeping 

Yonder. Is she near me now, as then ? 

Or was but the night-wind sweeping 

Down the hollow glen ? 



Ellen Bawn, O Ellen Bawn, you darling, darling 
dear, you, 

Sit awhile beside me here ; I'll die unless I'm near 
you ! 

'Tis for you I'd swim the Suir and breast the Shan- 
non's waters ; 

For, Ellen dear, you've not your peer in Galway's 
blooming daughters ! 


Had I Limerick's gems and gold at will to meet and 

Were Loughrea's abundance mine, and all Por- 

tumna's treasure, 
These might lure me, might ensure me many and 

many a new love, 
But ah ! no bribe could pay your tribe for one like 

you, my true love ! 

Blessings be on Connaught ! That's the place for 

sport and raking ; 
Blessings, too, my love, on you, a-sleeping and 

awaking ! 
I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the sun went 

But, woe ! the flooding Shannon broke across my 

path in thunder. 

Ellen ! I'd give all the deer in Limerick's parks and 

Aye, and all the ships that rode last year in Munster 

Could I blot from time the hour I first became your 

lover ; 
For O ! you've given my heart a wound it never can 


Were to God that in the sod my corpse to-night were 

And the wild birds wheeling o'er it, and the winds 

a-sighing ! 


Since your cruel mother and your kindred choose to 

Two hearts that Love would blend in one for ever 

and for ever. 


Where is my chief, my master, this bleak night, 

mavrone ? 
O cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for 

Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one thro' 

and thro', 

1 O'Hussey, the last hereditary bard of the great sept of Maguire, of 
Fermanagh, who flourished about 1630, possessed a fine genius. He com- 
menced his vocation when quite a youth, by a poem celebrating the escape 
of the famous Hugh Roe O'Donnell from Dublin Castle, in 1591, into 
which he had been treacherously betrayed. The noble ode which O'Hussey 
addressed to Hugh Maguire, when that chief had gone on a dangerous expe- 
dition, in the depth of an unusually severe winter, is as interesting an example 
of the devoted affection of the bard to his chief, and as vivid a picture of 
intense desolation, as could be well conceived. Mr. Fergusson, in a fine 
piece of criticism on this poem, remarks: "There is a vivid vigor in these 
descriptions, and a savage power in the antithetical climax, which claim a 
character almost approaching to sublimity. Nothing can be more graphic, 
yet more diversified, than his images of unmitigated horror : nothing more 
grandly startling than his heroic conception of the glow of glory triumphant 
over frozen toil. We have never read this poem without recurring, and 
that by no unworthy association, to Napoleon in his Russian campaign. 
Yet, perhaps, O'Hussey has conjured up a picture of more inclement desola- 
tion, in his rude idea of northern horrors, than could be legitimately employed 
by a poet of the present day, when the romance of geographical obscurity 
no longer permits us to imagine the Phlegrean regions of endless storm, 
where the snows of H;emus fall mingled with the lightnings of Etna, amid 
Bistonian wilds or Hyrcanian forests." Dublin University Miiga-zinf, 


Pierceth one to the very bone. 

Rolls real thunder? Or was that red livid light 

Only a meteor ? I scarce know , but through the 

midnight dim 
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that 

persecutes him, 
Nothing hath crueler venomy might. 

An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems ! 
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have 

been burst wide ; 
Down from the overcharged clouds, like to headlong 

ocean's tide, 
Descends gray rain in roaring streams. 

Tho' he were even a wolf ranging the round green 

Tho' he were even a pleasant salmon in the un- 

chainable sea, 
Tho' he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce 

bear, he, 
This sharp sore sleet, these howling floods. 

O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire ! 
Darkly as in a dream he strays. Before him and 


Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind, 
The wounding wind that burns as fire. 

It is my bitter grief, it cuts me to the heart 
That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his 
fate ! 


O woe is me, where is he ? Wandering, houseless, 

Alone, without or guide or chart ! 

Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry- 

Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempest- 
uous winds 

Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting 
sleet-shower blinds 

The hero of Galang to-night ! 

Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is 
That one of his majestic bearing, his fair stately form, 
Should thus be tortured and o'erborne ; that this un- 
sparing storm 
Should wreak its wrath on head like his ! 

That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the op- 

Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be para- 
lyzed by frost ; 

While through some icicle-hung thicket, as one lorn 
and lost, 

He walks and wanders without rest. 

The tempest-driven torrent deludes the mead, 

It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds ; 

The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy 

So that the cattle cannot feed. 


The pale-bright margins of the streams are seen by 

none ; 
Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on 

every side ; 
It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and 

wide : 
Water and land are blent in one. 

Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of monsters, 

Hugh now strays, 
As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but 

manly brow. 
O what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his, 

were now 
A backward glance at peaceful days ! 

But other thoughts are his, thoughts that can still in- 

With joy and an onward-bounding hope the bosom of 
Mac-Nee : 

Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows 
of the sea, 

Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire! 

And tho' frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his 

And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fin- 
gers o'er, 

A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb he ever 

The lightning of the soul, not skies. 



Hugh marched forth to fight : I grieved to see him so 

And lo ! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, 

sad, betrayed ; 
But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right 

hand hath laid 
In ashes, warms the hero's heart ! 



O woman of the piercing wail, (7) 
Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay 
With sigh and groan, 
Would God thou wert among the Gael ! 
Thou wouldst not then from day to day 
Weep thus alone. 

1 A concluding stanza, generally intended as a recapitulation of the entire 

2 This is an elegy on the death of the princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnell, 
who, having rial with others from Ireland in the year 1607, and afterwards 
dying in Rome, were interred on St. Peter's Hill in one grave. The poem 
is the production of The O'Donnell's bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird, or 
Ward, who accompanied the family in their exile ; it is addressed to Nuala, 
The O'Donnell's sister, who was also one of the fugitives. As the cir- 
cumstances connected with the flight of the northern earls, which led to 
the subsequent confiscation of the six Ulster counties by James I. may not 
be immediately in the recollection of many of our readers, it may be proper 
brieriy to state that it was caused by the discovery of a letter directed to Sir 


'Twere long before around a grave 

In green Tyrconnell, one could find 

This loneliness ; 

Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave, 

Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined 


William Ussher, Clerk of the Council, dropped in the council-chamber 
on the seventh of May, and which accused the northern chieftains gener- 
ally of a conspiracy to overthrow the government. This charge is now 
totally disbelieved. As an illustration of the poem, and as an interesting 
piece in itself of hitherto unpublished literature, we extract the account of 
the flight as recorded in the Annals of the Four Mastcrt and translated by 
Mr. O'Donovan : " Maguire (Cuconnaught), and Donogh, son of Mahon, 
who was son of the Bishop O'Brien, sailed in a ship to Ireland, and put in 
at the harbor of Swilly. They then took with them from Ireland the earl 
O'Neill (Hugh, son of Ferdoragh) and the Earl O'Donnell (Ron', son of 
Hugh, who was son of Magnus) and many others of the nobles of the 
province of Ulster. These are the persons who went with O'Neill, 
namely : his Countess Catherina, daughter of Magennis, and her three 
sons, Hugh, the Baron, John, and Brian ; Art Oge, son of Cormac, who 
was son of the Baron; Ferdoragh, son of Con, who was son of O'Neill; 
Hugh Oge, son of Brian, who was son of Art O'Neill; and many others 
of his most intimate friends. These were they who went with the Earl 
O'Donnell, namely: Caffer, his brother, with his sister Nuala; Hugh, the 
Earl's child, wanting three weeks of being one year old ; Rose, daughter of 
O'Doherty and wife of Carter, with her son Hugh, aged two years and 
three months; his (Rory's) brother's son Donnell Oge, son of Donnell ; 
Naghtan, son of Calvach, who was son of Donogh Cairbrcach O'Donnell; 
and many others of his intimate friends. They embarked on the festival of 
the Holy Cross in autumn. This was a distinguished company ; and it is 
certain that the sea has not borne and the wind has not wafted, in modem 
times, a number of persons in one ship more eminent, illustrious, or noble 
in point of genealogy, heroic deeds, valor, feats of arms, and brave achieve- 
ments than they. Would that God had but permitted them to remain in 
their patrimonial inheritances until the children should arrive at the age ot 
manhood ! Woe to the heart that meditated, woe to the mind that con- 
ceived, woe to the council that recommended the project of this expedition, 
without knowing whether they should, to the end of their lives, be able to 
return to their native principalities or patrimonies." The Earl of Tyrone was 
the illustrious Hugh O'Neill, the Irish leader in the wars against Elizabeth. 


Beside the wave in Donegal, 

In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, 

Or Killillee, 

Or where the sunny waters fall 

At Assaroe, near Erna shore, 

This could not be. 

On Derry's plains, in rich Drumclieff, 

Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned 

In olden years, 

No day could pass but woman's grief 

Would rain upon the burial-ground 

Fresh floods of tears ! 

O no! From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, 

From high Dunluce's castle-walls, 

From Lissadill, 

Would flock alike both rich and poor: 

One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls 

To Tara hill ; 

And some would come from Barrow-side, 

And many a maid would leave her home 

On Leitrim's plains, 

And by melodious Banna's tide, 

And by the Mourne and Erne, to come 

And swell thy strains ! 

Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down 
The mount whereon the martyr-saint ' 

1 St. Peter. This passage is not exactly a blunder, though at first it 
may seem one : the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to Ireland, and 
he naturally includes in the transference the whole of the immediate locality 
around the grave. 


Was crucified ; 

From glen and hill, from plain and town, 

One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, 

Would echo wide. 

There would not soon be found, I ween, 

One foot of ground among those bands 

For museful thought, 

So many shriekers of the keen l 

Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, 

All woe-distraught ! 

Two princes of the line of Conn 

Sleep in their cells of clay beside 

O'Donnell Roe : 

Three royal youths, alas ! are gone, 

Who lived for Erin's weal, but died 

For Erin's woe. 

Ah, could the men of Ireland read 

The names these noteless burial-stones 

Display to view, 

Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, 

Their tears gush forth again, their groans 

Resound anew ! 

The youths whose relics moulder here 

Were sprung from Hugh, high prince and lord 

Of Aileach's lands ; 

Thy noble brothers, justly dear, 

Thy nephew, long to be deplored 

By Ulster's bands. 

1 Ciioirtf, the funeral-wail, pronounced Keen. 


Theirs were not souls wherein dull time 
Could domicile decay, or house 
Decrepitude ! 

They passed from earth ere manhood's prime, 
Ere years had power to dim their brows, 
Or chill their blood. 

And who can marvel o'er thy grief, 
Or who can blame thy flowing tears, 
That knows their source ? 
O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, 
Cut oft amid his vernal years, 
Lies here a corse 
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom 
Tyrconnell of the Helmets mourns 
In deep despair : 

For valor, truth, and comely bloom, 
For all that greatens and adorns, 
A peerless pair. 

Oh, had these twain, and he, the third, 

The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son 

(Their mate in death, 

A prince in look, in deed and word), 

Had these three heroes yielded on 

The field their breath, 

Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, 

There would not be a town nor clan 

From shore to sea, 

But would with shrieks bewail the slain, 

Or chant aloud the exulting rann 1 

Of jubilee! 

1 Song. 


When high the shout of battle rose, 

On fields where freedom's torch still burned 

Thro' Erin's gloom, 

If one, if barely one of those 

Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned 

The hero's doom ! 

If at Athboy, where hosts of brave 

Ulidian horsemen sank beneath 

The shock of spears, 

Young Hugh O'Niall had found a grave, 

Long must the north have wept his death, 

With heart-wrung tears ! 

If on the day of Ballachmyre 

The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young, 

A warrior's fate, 

In vain would such as thou desire 

To mourn, alone, the champion sprung 

From Niall the Great ! 

No marvel this : for all the dead, 

Heaped on the field, pile over pile, 

At Mullach-brack, 

Were scarce an eric 1 for his head, 

If Death had stayed his footsteps, while 

On victory's track! 

If on the Day of Hostages 

The fruit had from the parent bough 

Been rudely torn, 

In sight of Munstcr's bands, Mac-Nee's, 

1 A compensation or fine. 


Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, 

Could ill have borne. 

If on the day of Balloch-boy, 

Some arm had laid, by foul surprise, 

The chieftain low, 

Even our victorious shout of joy 

Would soon give place to rueful cries 

And groans of woe ! 

If on the day the Saxon host 

Were forced to fly, a day so great 

For Ashanee, 1 

The chief had been untimely lost, 

Our conquering troops should moderate 

Their mirthful glee. 

There would not lack on Lifford's day, 

From Galway, from the glens of Boyle, 

From Limerick towers, 

A marshalled file, a long array 

Of mourners to bedew the soil 

With tears in showers ! 

If on the day a sterner fate 

Compelled his flight from Athcnry, 

His blood had flowed, 

What numbers all disconsolate 

Would come unasked, and share with thee 

Affliction's load ! 

If Derry's crimson field had seen 

His life-blood offered up, though 'twere 


On victory's shrine, 
A thousand cries would swell the keen, 
A thousand voices of despair 
Would echo thine ! 

Oh, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm 

That bloody night on Fergus' banks, 

But slain our chief 

When rose his camp in wild alarm, 

How would the triumph of his ranks 

Be dashed with grief! 

How would the troops of Murbach mourn 

If on the Curlew .Mountains' day 

Which England rued, 

Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, 

By shedding there, amid the fray, 

Their prince's blood ! 

Red would have been our warrior's eyes 

Had Roderick found on Sligo's field 

A gory grave ; 

No northern chief would soon arise 

So sage to guide, so strong to shield, 

So swift to save. 

Long would Leith-Cuinn 1 have wept if Hugh 

Had met the death he oft had dealt 

Among the foe ; 

But, had our Roderick fallen too, 

All Erin must, alas, have felt 

The deadly blow. 

Lcith-Cuinn, northern half of Ireland. Leith-Moga, southern half. 


What do I say ? Ah, woe is me ! 

Already we bewail in vain 

Their fatal fall ! 

And Erin, once the great and free, 

Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, 

And iron thrall. 

Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry 

Thine overflowing eyes, and turn 

Thy heart aside, 

For Adam's race is born to die, 

And sternly the sepulchral urn 

Mocks human pride. 

Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, 

Nor place thy trust in arm of clay, 

But on thy knees 

Uplift thy soul to God alone, 

For all things go their destined way 

As He decrees. 

Embrace the faithful crucifix, 

And seek the path of pain and prayer 

Thy Saviour trod ; 

Nor let thy spirit intermix 

With earthly hope, with worldly care, 

Its groans to God ! 

And Thou, O mighty Lord ! whose ways 

Are far above our feeble minds 

To understand, 

Sustain us in these doleful clays, 

And render light the chain that binds 

Our fallen land ! 


Look down upon our dreary state, 
And thro' the ages that may still 
Roll sadly on, 

Watch thou o'er hapless Erin's fate, 
And shield at least from darker ill 
The blood of Conn ! 



Lonely from my home I come, 

To cast myself upon your tomb 

And to weep. 

Lonely from my lonesome home, 

My lonesome house of grief and gloom, 

While I keep 

Vigil often all night long, 

For your dear, dear sake, 

Praying many a prayer, so wrong, 

That my heart would break ! 

Gladly, O my blighted flower, 

Sweet apple of my bosom's tree ! 

Would I now 

Stretch me in your dark death-bower 

Beside your corpse, and lovingly 

Kiss your brow. 

But we'll meet ere many a day 

Never more to part, 

For even now I feel the clay 

Gathering round my heart. 


In my soul doth darkness dwell, 

And thro' its dreary winding caves 

Ever flows, 

Ever flows with moaning swell, 

One ebbless flood of many waves 

Which are woes. 

Death, love, has me in his lures ; 

But that grieves not me, 

So my ghost may meet with yours 

On yon moon-loved lea. 

When the neighbors near my cot 

Believe me sunk in slumber deep, 

I arise 

(For, oh, 'tis a weary lot, 

This watching aye, and wooing sleep 

With hot eyes); 

I arise, and seek your grave, 

And pour forth my tears, 

While the winds that nightly rave 

Whistle in mine ears. 

Often turns my memory back 

To that dear evening in the dell, 

When we twain 

Sheltered by the sloe-bush black, 

Sat, laughed, and talked, while thick sleet fell, 

And cold rain. 

Thanks to God ! no guilty leaven 

Dashed our childish mirth : 

You rejoice- for this in Heaven, 

I not less on earth ! 


Love ! the priests feel wroth with me, 

To find I shrine your image still 

In my breast, 

Since you are gone eternally, 

And your fair frame lies in the chill 

Grave at rest ; 

But true love outlives the shroud, 

Knows nor check nor change, 

And beyond time's world of cloud 

Still must reign and range. 

Well may now your kindred mourn 

The threats, the wiles, the cruel arts, 

Long they tried 

On the child they left forlorn ! 

They broke the tenderest heart of hearts, 

And she died. 

Curse upon the love of show ! 

Curse on pride and greed ! 

They would wed you " high" and woe ! 

Here behold their meed. 



O hushaby, baby ! Why weepest thou ? 
The diadem yet shall adorn thy brow, 
And the jewels thv sires had, long agone, 
In the regal ages of Eoghan and Conn, 
Shall all be thine. 
C) hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 


My sorrow, my woe, to see thy tears, 
Pierce into my heart like spears. 

I'll give thee that glorious apple of gold 

The three fair goddesses sought of old, 

I'll give thee the diamond sceptre of Pan, 

And the rod with which Moses, that holiest man, 

Wrought marvels divine : 

O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

I'll give thee that courser, fleet on the plains, 

That courser with golden saddle and reins, 

Which Falvey rode, the mariner-lord, 

When the blood of the Danes at Cushel-na-Nord 

Flowed like to dark wine : 

O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

I'll give thee the dazzling sword was worn 

By Brian on Cluan-tarava's morn, 

And the bow of Murrough, whose shaft shot gleams 

That lightened as when the arrowy beams 

Of the noon-sun shine : 

() hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

And the hound that was wont to speed amain 

From CasheFs rock to Bunratty's plain, 

And the eagle from gloomy Aherlow, 

And the hawk of Skellig ; all these I'll bestow 

On thee and thy line : 

O hushaby, hushabv, child of mine ! 

And the golden fleece that Jason bore 
To Hellas' hero-peopled shore. 


And the steed that Cuchullin bought of yore 
With cloak and necklet and golden store 
And meadows and kine : 
O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

And ConnaPs unpierceable shirt of mail, 

And the shield of Nish, the prince of the Gael ; 

These twain for thee, my babe, shall I win, 

With the flashing spears of Achilles and Finn, 

Each high as a pine : 

O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

And the swords of Diarmuid and fierce Fingal, 
The slayers on heath and (alas !) in hall ; 
And the charmed helmet that Oscar wore 
When he left Mac Treoin to welter in gore, 
Subdued and supine : 
O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

And the jewel wherewith Queen Eofa proved 

The valor and faith of the hero she loved ; 

The magic jewel that nerved his arm 

To work his enemies deadly harm 

On plain and on brine : 

O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

And the wondrous cloak renowned in song, 
The enchanted cloak of the dark Dubh-long, 
Hv whose powerful aid he battled amid 
The thick ot his toes, unseen and hid. 
This, too, shall be thine : 
O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 


The last, not least, of thy weapons, my son, 
Shall be the glittering glaive of O'Dunn, 
The gift from jEnghus' powerful hands, 
The hewer-down of the Fenian bands 
With edge so fine ! 
O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

And a princess too, transcending all 

Who have held the hearts of men in thrall, 

Transcending Helen of history, 

Thy bride in thy palmier years shall be; 

Thy bride heroine : 

O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

Even Hebe, who fills the nectar up 
For Love, in his luminous crystal cup, 
Shall pour thee out a wine in thy dreams, 
As bright as thy poet-father's themes 
When inspired by the Nine. 
O hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 

And silken robes, and sweet soft cates 
Shall thou wear and eat, beyond thy mates. 
Ah, sec, here comes thy mother, Moirin ! 
She, too, has the soul of an Irish queen : 
She scorns to repine ! 
Then hushaby, hushaby, child of mine ! 
My sorrow, mv woe, to see thv tears, 
Pierce into my heart like spears. 



King Dathy assembled his Druids and Sages, 

And thus he spake to them : " Druids and Sages 

What of King Dathy ? 

What is revealed in destiny's pages 

Of him or his ? Hath he 

Aught for the future to dread or to dree ? 

Good to rejoice in, or evil to flee ? 

Is he a foe of the Gall 

Fitted to conquer, or fated to fall ? " 

And Beirdra the Druid made answer as thus : 

(A priest of a hundred years was he.) 

" Dathv ! thy fate is not hidden from us ! 

Hear it thro' me ! 

Thou shalt work thine own will : 

Thou shalt slay, thou shalt prey, 

And be conqueror still ! 

Thee the earth shall not harm ! 

Thee we charter and charm 

From all evil and ill , 

Thee the laurel shall crown ! 

Thee the wave shall not drown ! 

Thee the chain shall not bind ! 

Thee the spear shall not find ! 

Thee the sword shall not slay ! 

Thee the shaft shall not pierce ! 

Thou, therefore, be fearless and fierce 

And sail with thy warriors away 

To the lands of the Gall, 


There to slaughter and sway, 
And be victor o'er all ! " 

So Dathy he sailed away, away 

Over the deep resounding sea; 

Sailed with his hosts in armor gray 

Over the deep resounding sea, 

Many a night and many a day ; 

And many an islet conquered he, 

He and his hosts in armor gray. 

And the billow drowned him not, 

And the fetter bound him not, 

And the blue spear found him not, 

And the red sword slew him not, 

And the swift shaft knew him not, 

And the foe o'crthrew him not. 

Till one bright morn, at the base 

Of the Alps, in rich Ausonia's regions, 

His men stood marshalled face to face 

With the mighty Roman legions. 

Noble foes ! 

Christian and heathen stood there among those, 

Resolute all to overcome, 

Or die for the eagles of ancient Rome ! 


When, behold ! from a temple anear 
Came forth an aged priest-like man 
Of a countenance meek and clear ; 
Who, turning to Eire's Ceann, 1 
Spake him as thus : " King Dathy, hear ! 

1 Ceurtn, head, king. 


Thee would I warn ! 

Retreat, retire : repent in time 

The invader's crime. 

Or better for thee thou hadst never been born ! " 

But Dathy replied : " False Nazarene ! 

Dost thou, then, menace Dathy, thou ? 

And dreamest thou that he will bow 

To one unknown, to one so mean, 

So powerless as a priest must be ? 

He scorns alike thy threats and thee ! 

On, on, my men, to victory ! " 

And, with loud shouts for Eire's King, 

The Irish rush to meet the foe, 

And falchions clash and bucklers ring, 

When, lo ! 

Lo ! a mighty earthquake shock ! 

And the cleft plains reel and rock; 

Clouds of darkness pall the skies ; 

Thunder crashes, 

Liy-htninc- flashes, 

O O ' 

And in an instant Dathy lies 

On the earth, a mass of blackened ashes ! 

Then, mournfully and dolefully, 

The Irish warriors sailed away 

Over the deep resounding sea, 

Till, wearily and mournfully, 

They anchored in Kblana's Bay. 

Thus the Seanachies 1 and Sages 

Tell this tale of long-gone ages. 

1 &ar.ii<;bics t historians. 





O woman of three cows, agragh ! don't let your 

tongue thus rattle : 
O don't be saucy, don't be stift, because you may 

have cattle. 
I've seen (and here's my hand to you, I only say 

what's true !) 
A many a one with twice your stock not half so 

proud as you. 

Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't 

be their despiser, 
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the 

very miser. 
And death soon strips the proudest wreath from 

haughty human brows : 
Then don't be stift, and don't be proud, good 

woman of three cows ! 

See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen 

More's descendants ! 
'Tis they that won the glorious name and had the 

<2;rand attendants : 

1 This ballad, which is of homely cast, wa 
saucy pride of a woman in humble lite who assu 
being the owner ot three cows. Its author'.-, nan 
can be determined from the language, as bel 
seventeenth century. That it was formerly v 

concluded from the fact the phrase " Ka 
has become a saying in that province on any 
able to lower the pretensions ot a boastful or 

tended as a rebuke to the 
ned airs of consequence, 
e is unknown, but its ay 
g to the early part of the in Minister may IK: 

, O woman of three cows 
:casion upon which it is desir- 
nsequential person. 


If they were forced to bow to fate, as every mortal 

Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my woman of 

three cows ? 

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the 

land to mourning, 
Mavrone ! l for they were banished, with no hope of 

their returning : 
Who knows in what abodes of want those youths 

were driven to house ? 
Yet you can give yourself these airs, O woman of 

three cows ! 

O think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom 

nothing daunted ! 
Sec how he fell in distant Spain, unchroniclcd, 

He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, whom thunder 

cannot rouse : 
Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good 

woman of three cows ! 

O'Ruark, Maguirc, those souls of fire whose names 

are shrined in story, 
Think how their high achievements once made Erin's 

greatest glory ; 
Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and 

cypress boughs, 
And so, for all your pride, will yours, () woman of 

three cows ! 

1 My grief. 


The O'Carrolls, also, famed when fame was only for 

the boldest, 
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and 

oldest ; 
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle and 

carouse ? 
Just think of that, and hide your head, good woman 

of three cows. 

Your neighbor's poor, and you, it seems, are big 

with vain ideas, 
Because, inagh, 1 you've got three cows ; one more, I 

see, than she has ! 
That tongue of yours wags more, at times, than 

charity allows : 
But if you're strong, be merciful, great woman of 

three cows ! 


Now there you go : you still, of course, keep up your 

scornful bearing ; 
And I'm too poor to hinder you. But, by the cloak 

I'm wearing, 
If I had but four cows myself, even though you 

were my spouse, 
I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my woman 

of three cows ! 

1 Forsooth. 




Farewell, O Patrick Sarsfield : may luck be on your 

path ! 
Your camp is broken up ; your work is marred for 

But you go to kindle into flame the King of France's 


Though you leave sick Eire in tears. 
(Ocb, ochone /) 

May the white sun and moon rain glory on your 


All hero as you are, and holy man of God ! 
To you the Saxons owe a many an hour of dread 
In the land you have often trod. 
(Ocb, ochone /) 

The Son of Mary guard you, and bless you to the 

end ! 

'Tis altered is the time when your legions were astir. 
When at Cullen you were hailed as a conqueror and 


And you crossed Narrow-water, near Birr. 
(Ot/7, oc hone /) 

I'll journey to the north, over mount, moor, and 

wave : 
'Twas there I first beheld, drawn up in hie and line, 


The brilliant Irish hosts ; they were bravest of the 


But, alas, they scorned to combine. 
( Och, ochone /) 

I saw the royal Boyne, when his billows flashed with 

blood ; 
I fought at Graine Og, where a thousand horsemen 

On the dark empurpled plain of Aughrim, too, I 


On the plain by Tuberdonny's well. 
( Och, ochone /) 

To the heroes of Limerick, the city of the fights, 
Be my best blessing borne on the wings of the air ! 
We had card-playing there o'er our camp-fires at 


And the Word of Life too, and prayer. 
( Och, ochone /) 

But for you, Londonderry, may plague smite and 


Your people, may ruin desolate you stone by stone ! 
Thro' you there's many a gallant youth lies coffinlcss 


With the winds for mourners alone. 
( Of/;, ochone ! } 

I clomb the high hill on a fair summer noon, 
And saw the Saxons muster, clad in armor blinding- 
bright : 


Oh, rage withheld my hand, or gunsman and dragoon 
Should have supped with Satan that night ! 
( Och, ochone /) 

How many a noble soldier, how many a cavalier 
Careered along this road, seven fleeting weeks ago, 
With silver-hiked sword, with matchlock and with 


Who now, mavrone ! lieth low. 
( Ocb, ochone /) 

All hail to thee, Ben Edir ! l but ah, on thy brow 
I see a limping soldier, who battled and who bled 
Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though now 
The worthy is begging his bread. 
( Och, ochone /) 

And Diarmuid, O Diarmuid ! he perished in the 

strife ; 

His head it was spiked upon a halbert high; 
His colors they were trampled ; he had no chance of 


If the Lord God Himself stood by ! 
( Och, ochone /) 

But most, O my woe ! I lament and lament 

For the ten valiant heroes who dwell nigh the Nore, 

And my three blessed brothers ; they left me, and 

they went 

To the wars, and returned no more. 
(Och, ochone') 

1 Ben Edir : the beautiful Hill of Howth, near Dublin. 


On the bridge of the Boyne was our first overthrow ; 
By Slaney the next, for we battled without rest ; 
The third was at Aughrim. O Eire, thy woe 
Is a sword in my bleeding breast. 
( Och, ochone /) 

Oh, the roof above our heads, it was barbarously fired, 

While the black Orange guns blazed and bellowed 
around ! 

And as volley followed volley, Colonel Mitchel l in- 

Whither Lucan still stood his ground ? 

( Och, ochone /) 

But O'Kelly still remains, to defy, and to toil. 

He has memories that hell won't permit him to 


And a sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil 
Upon many an Aughrim yet ! 
( Och, ochone /) 

And I never shall believe that my fatherland can fall, 
With the Burkes, 2 and the Decies, and the son of 

royal James, 

And Talbot the captain, and Sarsfield above all, 
The beloved of damsels and dames. 
( Och, ochone /) 

1 Colonel Mitchclburne, the Governor of Deny, in the Williamite ser- 

'* The five of th- De Burgo or Burke family who were loyal to James 11.: 
Lords Clanrickanl, Brittas, Bophin, Castleconnell, and Galway. " The 
son of royal Jamrs " is the famous James Fir/ James, Duke of Berwick, 
subseijuently Marshal, Duke, and Peer of France. 



O mournful, O forsaken pile 

What desolation dost thou dree ! 

How tarnished is the beauty that was thine erewhilc, 

Thou mansion of chaste melody. 

Demolished lie thy towers and halls ; 

A dark, unsightly earthen mound 

Defaces the pure whiteness of thy shining walls, 

And solitude doth gird thee round. 

Fair fort, thine hour has come at length, 
Thine older glory has gone by. 
Lo, far beyond thy noble battlements of strength 
Thy corner-stones all scattered lie. 

Where now, O rival of the gold 

Emania, be thy wine-cups all ? 

Alas, for these thou now hast nothing but the cold, 

Cold stream that from the heavens doth fall ! 

Thy clay-choked gateways none can trace 

Thou fortress of the once bright doors ; 

The limestones of thy summit now bestrew thy base, 

Bestrew the outside of thy floors ; 

Above thy shattered window-sills 

The music that to-day breaks forth 

Is but the music of the wild winds of the hills, 

The wild winds of the stormv north. 


What spell o'er came thee, mighty fort, 
What fatal fit of slumber strange, 
O palace of the wine, O many-gated court ! 
That thou shouldst undergo this change? 

Thou wert, O bright-walled, beaming one 
Thou cradle of high deeds and bold ! 
The Tara of assemblies to the sons of Conn, 
Clan Council's council-hall of old ; 

Thou wert a new Emania, thou, 

A northern Cruachan in thy might, 

A dome like that which stands by Boyne's broad 

water now, 
Thou Erin's Rome of all delight ! 

In thee were Ulster's tributes stored, 
And lavished like the flowers in May. 
And into thee were Connaught's thousand treasures 

Deserted tho' thou art to-day ! 

How often from thy turrets hi;h, 

j o ' 

Thy purple turrets, have we seen 

Long lines of glittering ships, when summer-time 

drew nigh, 
With masts and sails of snow-white sheen ! 

How often seen when u;a'/,ini2; round 

From thv tall towers, the hunting trains 

The blood-enlivening chase, the horseman and the 

rhou fastness of a hundred plains ! 


How often to thy banquet bright 
We have seen the strong-armed Gaels repair, 
And when the feast was over, once again unite 
For battle, in thy basscourt fair ! 

Alas for thee, thou fort forlorn ; 

Alas for thy low, lost estate : 

It is my woe of woes, this melancholy morn 

To see thee left thus desolate. 

O there hath come of ConnelFs race 

A many and many a gallant chief 

Who, if he saw thee now, thou of the once glad 

Could not dissemble his deep grief. 

Could Manus of the lofty soul 

Behold thee as this day thou art, 

Thou of the regal towers ! what bitter, bitter dole 

What agony would rend his heart ! 

Could Hugh MacHugh's imaginings 

Portray for him the rueful plight, 

What anguish, () thou palace of the northern kings! 

Were his, thro' many a sleepless night. 

Could even the mighty prince whose choice 

'Tvvas to o'erthrow thee, could Hugh Roe 

But view thee now, methinks, he would not much 

That he had laid thy turrets low. 


Oh, who could dream that one like him, 

One sprung of such a line as his, 

Thou of the embellished walls ! would be the man to 

Thy glories by a deed like this ? 

From Hugh O'Donnell, thine own brave 

And far-famed sovereign, came the blow ; 

By him, thou lonesome castle o'er the Esky's wave! 

By him was wrought thine overthrow. 

Yet not because he wished thee ill, 

Left he thee thus bercaven and void : 

The prince of the victorious tribe of Dalach still 

Loved thee, yea, thee whom he destroyed. 

He brought upon thee all this woe, 

Thou of the fair-proportioned walls ! 

Lest thou shouldst ever yield a shelter to the foe, 

Shouldst house the black ferocious Galls ; 

Shouldst yet become, in saddest truth, 

A Dun-na-GallJ- the stranger's own : 

For this cause only, stronghold of the Gaelic youth ! 

Lie thy majestic towers o'erthrown. 

It is a drear, a dismal si^ht, 
This of thy ruin and decay, 
Now that our kings, and bards, and men of mark of 

Are nameless exiles far away. 

1 Fort of the Furriiinrr. 


Yet better thou shoulclst fall, meseems, 

By thine own king of many thrones, 

Than that the truculent Galls should rear around thy 

Dry mounds, and circles of great stones. 

As doth in many a desperate case 

The surgeon by the malady, 

So hath, O shield and bulwark of great Coftey's race! 

Thy royal master done by thce. 

The surgeon, if he be but wise, 
Examines till he learns and sees 
Where lies the fountain of his patient's health, where 

The germ and root of his disease ; 

Then cuts away the gangrened part, 

That so the sounder may be freed 

Ere the disease hath power to reach the sufferer's 

And so brino; death without rcmead. 


Now thou hast held the patient's place 

And thy disease hath been the foe ; 

So he, thy surgeon, () proud house of Dalach's race ! 

Who should he be if not Hugh Roe? 

But he, thus fated to destroy 

Thy shining walls, will yet restore 

And raise thee up anew in beautv and in joy, 

So that thou shalt not sorrow more. 


By God's help, he who wrought thy fall 
Will reinstate thee yet in pride ; 
Thy variegated halls shall be rebuilded all, 
Thy lofty courts, thy chambers wide. 

Yes, thou shall live again, and see 

Thy youth renewed ; thou shalt outshine 

Thy former self by far, ai.d Hugh shall reign in thee, 

The Tyrconnellian's king, and thine. 



Holy are the works of Mary's blessed Son, 
Holy are His mercies unto every one. 
Holy is the sun that lighteth heaven ; 
Holy is the weather, morn and even ; 
Holy is the wind that woos the flowers ; 
Holy are the gentle April showers; 
Holy is the summer's cheering glow; 
Holy is the rain God sends below. 
Holy are all in His abodes of love, 
Holy is every Heaven of His above, 
Holy is the sun and every star : 
Holy is He who sends their light afar. 
Holy are the winds that fall and rise; 
Holy are the waters and the skies ; 
Holy is all outspread beneath His eye. 
Holy arc the birds He formed to fly ; 
Holy arc the ha/el woodlands green ; 
Holy arc the vineyards in their sheen : 


Holy are the fruits they bear and bring, 
Holy is the earth wherefrom they spring. 
Holy is the ever-circling Heaven ; 
Holy is every thought to Jesus given ; 
Holy is all that He hath made, and sees, 
Holy are all His ways and His decrees. 
Holy are the ocean strands and floods ; 
Holy are the dark umbrageous woods ; 
Holy are the herbs and plants and flowers ; 
Holy is all creation with her powers ; 
Holy are the earth's four-corner bosoms ; 
Holy are the mossy rocks and blossoms. 
Holy is fire that giveth light and cheer; 
Holy is all that I have written here. 
Holy is the sea's voice, calm or hoarse, 
Holy are the streamlets in their course ; 
Holy are the healthy moorlands bare, 
Holy are the fishes, and the air. 
Holy are the Counsel and the Will, 
Holy are God's works, and most pure from ill. 
Holy are His laws, His faith and troth ; 
Holy are His wrath and patience both. 
Holy is Heaven with its nine Orders bright, 
Holy is Jesus, its great Lord and light : 
Holy is Heaven, above all holiness, 
Holy is the King the angels bless. 
Holy are the saints in Heaven that be ; 
Holy is the adorable Trinity : 
Holy are all high Heaven's works and words, 
Holy is love, the saints' love and the Lords' ! 




Long they pine in weary woe, the nobles of our land, 
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas ! and 

banned ; 
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exile's 

brand ; 
But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny- 

Houlahan ! 

Think her not a ghastly hag too hideous to be seen, 
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless 

Kathaleen ! 
Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned 

a queen, 
Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan ! 

Sweet and mild would look her face, O none so sweet 

and mild, 
Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is 

reviled ; 
Woollen plaids would grace herself, and robes of silk 

her child, 
If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan ! 

Sore disgrace it is to sec the arbitrcss of thrones 
Vassal to a Stixoncen of cold and sapless bones ! 

1 jlng/ice, Catherine O'Holohan, a name by which Ireland was alL 1 - 
gorically known. 


Bitter anguish wrings our souls ; with heavy sighs 

and groans 
We wait the y un g deliverer of Kathaleen Ny- 

Houlahan ! 

Let us pray to Him who holds life's issues in His 

Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its 

thousand lands ; 
Girdling them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, 

and strands, 
To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! 

He who over sands and waves led Israel along, 

He who fed with heavenly bread that chosen tribe 

and throng, 
He who stood by iMoses when his foes were fierce 

and strong, 
May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan ! 



Lift up the drooping head, 

Mechal Dubh Mac-Giolla Kierin ! 1 

Her blood yet boundeth red 

Through the myriad veins of Erin. 

No, no, she is not dead 

Medial Dubh Mac-Giolla Kierin ! 

1 Dark Midi.icl M'Gilla Kcrin, Piinct- of Ossory. 


Lo ! she redeems 

The lost years of bygone ages : 

New glory beams 

Henceforth on h?r history's pages ! 

Her long penitential night of sorrow 

Yields at length before the reddening morrow ! 

You heard the thunder-shout, 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla Kierin ! 

Saw the lightning streaming out 

O'er the purple hills of Erin ! 

And bide you yet in doubt, 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla Kierin ? 

O doubt no more ! 

Through Ulidia's voiceful valleys, 

On Shannon's shore, 

Freedom's burning spirit rallies. 

Earth and Heaven unite in sign and omen 1 

Bodeful of the downfall of our foemcn. 

Thurot commands the North, 
Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla Kierin ! 
Louth sends her heroes forth 
To hew down the foes of Erin ! 
Swords gleam in field and gorth? 
Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla Kierin! 
Up, up, mv friend ! 
There's a glorious goal before us ; 

1 This is an allusion to that well-known atmospherical phenomenon or" 
the "cloud armies," which is i'aid to have been so common about this period 
in Scotland. 

'* Gortb literally means Garden. 


Here will we blend 

Speech and soul in this grand chorus : 

" By the Heaven that gives us one more token, 

We will die, or see our shackles broken ! " 

Charles leaves the Grampian Hills, 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla Kierin ! 

Charles, whose appeal yet thrills 

Like a clarion-blast, through Erin. 

Charles, he whose image fills 

Thy soul, too, Mac-Giolla Kierin ! 

Ten thousand strong, 

His clans move in brilliant order, 

Sure that ere long 

He will march them o'er the border, 

While the dark-haired daughters of the Highlands 

Crown with wreaths the Monarch of three islands. 

Fill, then, the ale-cup high, 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla Kierin ! 

Fill ! the bright hour is nigh 

That shall give her own to Erin. 

Those who so sadly sie;h, 

Even as you, Mac-Giolla Kierin, 

Henceforth shall sing. 

Hark ! O'er heathery hill and dell come 

Shouts for the King ! 

Welcome, our deliverer, welcome ! 

Thousands this glad night, ere turning bedward, 

Will with us drink " Victorv to Charles Edward ! " 




It was on a balmy evening, as June was departing fast, 
That alone, and meditating in grief on the times a-past, 
I wandered through the gloomsome shades 
Of bosky Aherlow, 
A wilderness of glens and glades. 
When suddenly, a thrilling strain of song 
Broke forth upon the air in one incessant flow, 
Sweeter it seemed to me, (both voice and word,) 
Than harmony of the harp, or carol of the bird, 
For it foretold fair Freedom's triumph, and the doom 
of Wrong. 

The celestial hymns and anthems, that far o'er the 

sounding sea 
Come to Erin from the temples of bright-bosomed 

Italy ; 

The music which from hill and rath 
The playful fairy race 
Pour on the wandering warrior's path, 
Bewildering him with wonder and delight, 
Or the cuckoo's full note from some green sunless 


Some sunken thicket in a stilly wood, 
Had less than that rich melody made mine Irish blood 
Bound in its veins tor ecstasy, or given my soul new 

might ! 


And while so I stood and listened, behold, thousand 

swarms of bees, 
All arrayed in gay gold armor, shone red through the 

dusky trees ! 

I felt a boding in my soul, 
A truthful boding too, 
That Erin's days of gloom and dole 
Will soon be but remembered as a dream, 
And the olden glory show eclipsed by the new. 
Where will the Usurper 1 then be? Banished far! 
Where his vile hireling henchmen ? Slaughtered all 

in war ! 
For blood shall rill down every hill, and blacken 

every stream. 

I am HefFernan of Shronehill : my land mourns in 

thraldom long ; 
And I see but one sad sight here, the weak trampled 

by the strong. 

Yet if to-morrow, underneath 
A burial stone I lay, 
Clasped in the skeleton arms of death, 
And if a pilgrim wind again should waft 
Over my noteless grave the song I heard to-day, 
I would spring up revivified, reborn, 
A living soul again, as on my birthday morn, 
Ay ! even though coffined, over-earthed, tombed-in, 

and cpitaphed ! 

1 George I. 




I lay in unrest. Old thoughts of pain, 
That I struggled in vain to smother, 
Like midnight spectres haunted my brain ; 
Dark fantasies chased each other ; 
When, lo ! a figure who might it be? 
A tall fair figure stood near me ! 
Who might it be ? An unreal Banshee, 
Or an angel sent to cheer me ? 

Though years have rolled since then, yet now 

My memory thrillingly lingers 

On her awful charm, her waxen brow, 

Her pale translucent fingers, 

Her eyes that mirrored a wonder-world, 

Her mien of unearthly mildness, 

And her waving raven tresses that curled 

To the ground in beautiful wildness. 

" Whence comest thou, spirit r " I asked, methou^ht, 

" Thou art not one of the banished ? " 

Alas, for me, she answered nought, 

But rose aloft and evanished ; 

And a radiance, like to a glory, beamed 

In the light she left behind her. 

Long time I wept, and at last, medrcamed, 

I left my shieling to find her. (15) 


And first I turned to the thunderous north, 
To Gruagach's mansion kingly ; 
Untouching the earth, I then sped forth 
To Inver-lough, and the shingly 
And shining strand of the fishful Erne, 
And thence to Cruachan the golden, 
Of whose resplendent palace ye learn 
So many a marvel olden. 

I saw the Mourna's billows flow ; 

I passed the walls of Shenady, 

And stood in the hero-thronged Ardroe, 

Embosked amid greenwoods shady ; 

And visited that proud pile that stands 

Above the Boyne's broad waters, 

Where ./Engrius dwells with his warrior-bands 

And the fairest of Ulster's daughters. 

To the halls of Mac Lir, to Creevroe's height, 

To Tara, the glory of Erin, 

To the fairy palace that glances bright 

On the peak of the blue Cnocfeerin, 

I vainly hied. I went west and east ; 

I travelled seaward and shoreward ; 

But thus was I greeted at field and at feast : 

"Thy way lies onward and forward !" 

At last I reached, I wist not how, 
The royal towers of Ival, 
Which under the clifi's gigantic brow 
Still rise without a rival. 


And here were Thomond's chieftains all 
With armor and swords and lances, 
And here sweet music filled the hall, 
And damsels charmed with dances. 

And here, at length, on a silver throne 
Half-seated, half-reclining, 
With forehead white as the marble stone, 
And garments starrily shining, 
And features beyond a poet's pen, 
The sweetest, saddest features, 
Appeared before me once again 
The fairest of living creatures ! 

" Draw near, O mortal ! " she said with a sigh, 

" And hear my mournful story. 

The guardian spirit of Erin am I, 

But dimmed is mine ancient glory. 

My priests are banished, my warriors wear 

No longer victory's garland, 

And my child, my son, my beloved heir, 

Is an exile in a far land." 

I heard no more, I saw no more ; 

The bonds of slumber were broken : 

And palace and hero, and river and shore 

Had vanished and left no token. 

Dissolved was the spell that had bound my will 

And my fancy thus, for a season. 

But a sorrow therefore hangs over me still 

Despite the teachings of reason. 




Through the long drear night I lie awake, for the 

sorrows of Innisfail. 
My bleeding heart is ready to break ; I cannot but 

weep and wail. 
O shame and grief and wonder ! her sons crouch 

lowly under 

The footstool of the paltriest foe 
That ever yet hath wrought them woe. 

How long, O Mother of light and song, how long 

will they fail to see 
That men must be bold, no less than strong, if they 

truly will to be free ? 
They sit but in silent sadness, while wrongs that 

should rouse them to madness, 
Wrongs that might wake the very dead, 
Are piled on thy devoted head ! 

Thy castles, thy towers, thy palaces proud, thy stately 

mansions all, 
Are held by the knaves who crossed the waves to 

lord it in Brian's hall. 
Britannia, alas ! is portress in Cobhthach's golden 


And Ulster's and Momonia's lands 
Are in the robber stranger's hands. 


The tribe of Eoghan is worn with woe ; the O'Don- 

nell reigns no more ; 
O'Niall's remains lie mouldering low, on Italy's far- 

ofF shore ; 
And the youths of the pleasant valley are scattered, 

and cannot rally, 
While foreign despotism unfurls 
A flag 'mid hordes of base-born churls. 

The chieftains of Naas were valorous lords, but 
their valor was crushed by craft : 

They fell beneath envy's butcherly dagger, and cal- 
umny's poisoned shaft. 

A few of their mighty legions yet languish in alien 

But most of them, the frank, the free, 

Were slain through Saxon perfidy. 

Ah, lived the princes of Ainy's plains, and the 

heroes of green Domgole, 
And the chiefs of the Mauigc, we still might hope to 

baffle our doom and dole. 
Well then might the dastards shiver who herd by the 

blue Bride river ! 

But ah, those great and glorious men 
Shall draw no glaive on earth again ! 

All-powerful God ! look down on the tribes who 

mourn throughout the hind, 
And raise them some deliverer up, of a strong and 

smitini. r hand. 


Oh ! suffer them not to perish, the race Thou wert 

wont to cherish, 

But soon avenge their fathers' graves, 
And burst the bonds that keep them slaves ! 

WATTLE, O! (17) 


Last night, while stars did glisten 

By a hillside near the cove, 

I sat awhile to listen 

The sweet bird's pleasant lays of love. 

A damsel tall of stature 

With golden tresses long and low, 

Which, (joveliest sight in Nature !) 

Down to the bright green grass did flow, 

And breast as fair as snow in air, 

Without compare for beauteous show, 

Stood near, and sang me sweetly : 

" Come, Leather Away with the Wattle, O ! 

Her eyebrows dark and slender 

Were each bended like a bow; 

Her eyes beamed love as tender 

As only poets feel and know ; 

Her face where rose and lily 

Were both portrayed in brightest glow, 

Her mien so mild and stilly, 

All made my full heart overflow ! 


A tale she told of that Prince bold 
Whose crown of gold the Gael doth hold. 
I hearkened, all-delighted, 
To " Leather Away with the Wattle, O ! " 

I asked this lovely creature 

Was she Helen famed of yore, 

(So like she seemed in feature !) 

Whose name will live forevermore ; 

Or Dierdre, meekest, fairest, 

Whom Uisneach's sons wrought direful woe ; 

Or Cearnaid, richest, rarest, 

Who first made mills on water go ; 

Or Meadhbh the young, of ringlets long ? 

So sweet her song along did flow, 

Her song so rich and charming 

Of " Leather Away with the Wattle, O ! " 

And thus in tones unbroken, 

While sweet music filled her eye, 

In accents blandly spoken 

The damsel warbled this reply : 

u Albeit I know and blame not 

Your marvellous poetic lore, 

You know mine ancient name not, 

Tho' once renowned from shore to shore ; 

I am Innis famed, of Heroes named, 

Forsaken, lost in pain and woe, 

But waiting for a chorus 

To ' Leather Away with the Wattle, O ! ' 

They died in war, for ages, 

The brave sons of Art and Eo^han, 


Mute are the bards and sages, 

And ah, the priests are sad and lone. 

But Charles, despising danger, 

Shall soon ascend green Eire's throne, 

And drive the Saxon stranger 

Afar from hence to seek his own. 

Then, full of soul and freed from dole, 

Without control the wine shall flow, 

And we will sing in chorus : 

' Come, Leather Away with the Wattle, O ! ' 



O my land, O my love ! 

What a woe, and how deep, 

Is thy death to my long-mourning soul ! 

God alone, God above, 

Can awake thee from sleep, 

Can release thce from bondage and dole ! 

(Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba !) 

As a tree in its prime, 

Which the axe laycth low, 

Didst thou fall, O unfortunate land ! 

Not by time, nor thy crime, 

Came the shock and the blow : 

They were given by a false felon hand ! 

1 Banba (Banva) was one of the most ancient names given by the Bards 
to Ireland. 


(Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba !) 

O my grief of all griefs 

Is to see how thy throne 

Is usurped, whilst thyself art in thrall ! 

Other lands have their chiefs, 

Have their kings ; thou alone 

Art a wife, yet a widow withal. 

(Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba !) 

The high house of O'Niall 

Is gone down to the dust, 

The O'Brien is clanless and banned; 

And the steel, the red steel, 

May no more be the trust 

Of the faithful and brave in the land. 

(Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba !) 

True, alas ! wrong and wrath 

Were of old all too rife. 

Deeds were done which no good man admires. 

And perchance Heaven hath 

Chastened us for the strife 

And the blood-shedding ways of our sires ! 

(Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people ot Banba !) 

But, no more ! This our doom, 
While our hearts yet are warm, 


Let us not oven-weakly deplore ; 

For the hour soon may loom 

When the Lord's mighty hand 

Shall be raised for our rescue once more ! 

And our grief shall be turned into joy 

For the still proud people of Banba ! 



'Twas a balmy summer morning, 

Warm and early, 

Such as only June bestows ; 

Everywhere, the earth adorning, 

Dews lay pearly 

In the lily-bell and rose. 

Up from each green leafy bosk and hollow 

Rose the blackbird's pleasant lay. 

And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow. 

'Twas the dawning of the day ! 

Through the perfumed air the golden 
Bees flew round me; 
Bright fish dazzled from the sea; 
Till medreamt some faery olden 

1 The following song, translated from the Irish of O'Doran, refers to a 
singular atmospherical phenomenon said to be sometimes observed at Black- 
rock, near Dundalk, at daybreak, by the fishermen of that locality. Many 
similar narratives are to be met with in the poetry of almost all countries ; 
but O'Doran has endeavored to give the legend a political coloring, of which, 
I apprehend, readers in general will hardly deem it susceptible. 


V/orld-spell bound me 

In a trance of witchery ! 

Steeds pranced round anon with stateliest housings, 

Bearing riders pranked in rich array, 

Like flushed revellers after wine-carousings : 

'Twas the dawning of the day ! 

Then a strain of song was chanted, 

And the lightly 

Floating sea-nymphs drew anear. 

Then again the shore seemed haunted 

By hosts brightly 

Clad, and wielding shield and spear ! 

Then came battle-shouts, an onward rushing, 


Swords, and chariots, and a phantom fray. 

Then all vanished. The warm skies were blushing 

In the dawning of the day ! 

Cities girt with glorious gardens, 

(Whose immortal 

Habitants, in robes of light, 

Stood, methought, as angel-wardens 

Nigh each portal,) 

Now arose to da'/e my sight. 

Eden spread around, revived and blooming; 

When . . . lo ! as I gazed, all passed away. 

I saw but black rocks and billows looming 

In the dim chill dawn of dav. 



In Ivera there is darkness, 

(Darkness, darkness;) 

In Ivera there is darkness. 

And the laughing dancer's tread, 

And joyous music, and the voice of song 

Are heard no more; the day it weareth long, 

For O'Sullivan lies dead, 

Dead in stifFest starkness, 

(StifFest starkness !) 

O the false, false traitor Scully, 

(Scully, Scully!) 

O the false, false traitor Scully ! 

He who should have helped his chief, 

He basely sold him, basely sold the good 

Great man to whom he owed his life and blood. 

Perfidy beyond belief! 

God requite him fully, 

(Well and fully.) 

O may all earth's blackest evils, 

(Evils, evils,) 

O may all earth's blackest evils 

Haunt him on life's briary path ! 

May sickness waste him to and thro' the bone! 

And when he stands before God's judgment throne, 

May that just God, in His wrath, 

(jive him up to devils, 

(Up to devils!) 


Never will we, O no, never, 

(Never, never,) 

Never will we, O no, never 

Pardon him who thus could sell 

His generous chief to death and foul disgrace! 

May heaven's fair light grow black upon his face ! 

May the burning marl of hell 

Be his bed for ever, 

(And for ever!) 

Didst thou fall by sword and slaughter, 

(Slaughter, slaughter.) 

Had they slain thee in fair slaughter, 

Tho' thy corpse were one red wound, 

I would not weep : but ah, the woe to kill, 

To rack, to butcher thee; and, ghastlier still, 

Drag thee, like a fish harpooned, 

Thro' the blood-streaked water, 

(Thro' the water!) 

And thy headless trunk was buried, 

(Buried, buried,) 

And thy headless trunk was buried 

Distant from thy fathers' graves; 

In no green spot of holy Christian ground 

They laid thee, 'neath no consecrated mound. 

To a pit, by ruffian slaves, 

Wert thou darkly hurried, 

(Darkly hurried.) 

And they spiked thy head so gory, 
(Gory, gory,) 


Yes ! they spiked thy head so gory, 

As thine were a felon's end, 

High, high above the jail. Tempest and rain 

Alone shall wave those long black locks again, 

Lightning only ever lend 

Those dimmed eyes a glory, 

(Lend a glory.) 

There is keening, there is weeping, 
(Weeping, weeping.) 
There is keening, there is weeping 
Thro' the once glad haunts of song ; 
Ivera's broken heart is bleeding now ; 
Funeral gloom has darkened every brow, 
And the chill day waxeth long, 
For our chief lies sleeping, 
(Ever sleeping.) 

O thou ocean of blue billows! 

(Billows, billows,) 

O thou ocean of blue billows! 

From Cork harbor to Bearhaven 

A curse this blessed night lies on thy flood. 

For with its wave is blent the pure heart-blood 

Of that chief whose head, whose raven 

Locks, the storm-wind pillows. 

(Storm-wind pillows !) 

Translations, Chiefly from the German 



At thee the mocker 1 sneers in cold derision, 
Thro' thee he seeks to desecrate and dim 
Glory for which he hath no soul nor vision, 
For God and angel are but sounds with him. 
He makes the jewels of the heart his booty, 
And scoffs at man's belief and woman's beauty. 

Yet thou, a lowly shepherdess, descended 
Not from a kingly but a godly race, 
Art crowned by Poesy : amid the splendid 
Of Heaven's high stars she builds thy dwelling- 

Garlands thy temples with a wreath of glory^ 
And swathes thy memory in eternal story. 

The base of this weak world exult at seeing 


The fair defaced, the lofty in the dust ; 

Yet grieve not : there are godlike hearts in being 

Which worship still the beautiful and just. 

Let iMomus and his mummers please the crowd ! 

Of nobleness alone a noble mind is proud. 

1 Voltaire. 




The waters rush, the waters roll ; a fisherman sits 

angling by. 
He gazes o'er their glancing floor with sleepy brow 

and listless eye ; 
And while he looks and while he lolls, the flood is 

moved as by a storm 
And slowly from its heaving depth ascends a humid 

woman's form. 

She sings, she speaks : u Why lure, why wile, with 

human craft, with human snare 
My little brood, my helpless brood, to perish in this 

fiery air ? 
Ah, couldst thou guess the dreamy bliss we feel 

below the purple sea, 
Thou wouldst forsake the earth and all, to dwell 

beneath with them and me. 

The moon, the sun, their travel done, come down to 

sleep in ocean caves ; 
They reascend their glorious thrones with doubled 

beauty from the waves. 
Ah, sure the blue ethereal dew, the shining heaven 

these waters show, 
Nay, e'en thine own reflected face, must draw thcc, 

win dice, down below." 


The waters rush, the waters roll ; about his naked 
feet they move. 

An aching longing fills his soul, as when we look on 
her we love. 

She sings to him, she speaks to him : alas, he feels 
that all is o'er; 

She drags him down ; his senses swim : the fisher- 
man is seen no more. 



O dost thou know the clime where citron fruits are 

blooming fair ? 
The gold-hued orange burns amid the dusky greenery 

there ; 
From skies of spcckless blue arc wafted airlets warm 

and soft ; 
There sleepy myrtles grow ; there trees of laurel 

stand aloft. 

That bright land dost thou know ? 
Thither with thee, my love, I long to go. 

And dost thou know the pile, with roof on colon- 
nades reclining ? 

The broad saloon is bright, the chambers there are 
darkly shining ; 

And alabaster forms look down upon me pityingly : 

" Alas, unhappy child, what ill the world has done to 
thee ! " 


That dwelling dost thou know ? 

Thither, protector mine, with thee I'll go. 

Knowest thou the mountain's brow ? Its pathway 
clouds and shadows cover : 

Amid the darkling mist, the mule pursues his blind 
way over. 

The dragon and his brood lurk in a thousand cavern- 
hollows ; 

The rent rock topples down ; the headlong sweep of 
water follows. 

That mountain dost thou know ? 

Thither our way lies. Father! let us go. 


I have a thousand thousand lays, 

Compact of myriad myriad words, 

And so can sing a million ways, 

Can play at pleasure on the chords 

Of tuned harp or heart ; 

Yet is there one sweet song 

Eor which in vain I pine and long ; 

I cannot reach that song, with all my minstrel-art 

A shepherd sits within a dell 
O'ercanopied from rain and heat : 
A shallow but pellucid well 
Doth ever bubble at his feet. 


His pipe is but a leaf, 

Yet there, above that stream, 

He plays and plays, as in a dream, 

One air, that steals away the senses like a thief. 

A simple air, it seems in truth, 
And who begins will end it soon ; 
Yet, when that hidden shepherd youth 
So pours it in the ear of noon, 
Tears flow from those anear. 
All songs of yours and mine 
Condensed in one, were less divine 
Than that sweet air to sing, that sweet, sweet air to 
hear ! 

'Twas yesternoon he played it last: 

The hummings of a hundred bees 

Were in mine ears ; yet, as I passed, 

I heard him through the myrtle trees. 

Stretched all along he lay 

Mid foliage half-decayed ; 

His lambs were feeding while he played ; 

And sleepily wore on the stilly summer-day. (19) 



u Drop not, poor flower ! There's hope for thee. 
The spring again will breathe and burn, 
And glory robe the kii^ly tree 
Whose lite is in the sun's return ; 


And once again its buds will chime 
Their peal of joy from viewless bells, 
Though all the long dark winter-time 
They mourned within their dreary cells." 

" Alas, no kingly tree am I, 

No marvel of a thousand years : 

I cannot dream a winter by, 

And wake with song when spring appears ! 

At best, my life is kin to death ; 

My little all of being flows 

From summer's kiss, from summer's breath, 

And sleeps in summer's grave of snows." 

"Yet, grieve not ! Summer may depart, 
And beauty seek a brighter home : 
But thou that bearest in thy heart 
The germ of many a life to come, 
Mayst lightly reck of autumn's storms ; 
Whate'er thy individual doom 
Thine essence, blent with other forms, 
Will still shine out in radiant bloom." 

" Yes : moons will wane ; and bluer skies 

Breathe blessing forth for Bower and tree. 

I know that while the unit dies, 

The myriad live immortally ; 

But shall my soul survive in them ? 

Shall I be all I was before ? 

Vain dream ! 1 wither, soul and stem : 

I die, and know mv place no more. 


The sun may lavish life on them ; 
His light, in summer morns and eves, 
May color every dewy gem 
That sparkles on their tender leaves ; 
But this will not avail the dead : 
The glory of his wondrous face 
Who now rains lustre on my head, 
Can only mock my burial-place. 

And woe to me, fond foolish one, 
To tempt an all-consuming ray, 
To think a flower could love a sun, 
Nor feel her soul dissolve away ! 

could I be what once I was 
How should I shun his fatal beam ! 
Wrapt in myself, my life should pass 
But as a still dark painless dream. 

But vainly in my bitterness 

1 speak the language of despair : 
In life, in death, 1 still must bless 
The sun, the light, the cradling air. 
Mine early love to them I gave, 
And now that yon bright orb on high 
Illumines but a wider grave, 

For them 1 breathe- my final sigh. 

How often soared my soul aloft 
In balmy bliss too deep to speak, 
When Zephyr came-, and kissed with suit 
Sweet incense-breath my blushing cheek, 


When beauteous bees and butterflies 
Flew round me in the summer beam, 
Or when some virgin's glorious eyes 
Bent o'er me like a dazzling dream ! 

Ah, yes ! I know myself a birth 

Of that all-wise Almighty Love 

Which made the flower to bloom on earth, 

And sun and stars to burn above; 

And if, like them, I fade and fail, 

If I but share the common doom, 

Let no lament of mine bewail 

My dark descent to Hades' gloom. 

Farewell, thou lamp of this green globe ! 
Thy light is on my dying face, 
Thy glory tints my faded robe, 
And clasps me in a death-embrace. 
Farewell, thou balsam-dropping spring ! 
Farewell, ye skies that beam and weep ! 
Unhoping, and unmurmuring, 
I bow my head and sink to sleep." 



Solomon, where is thy throne ? It is gone in the wind. 
Habylon, where is thy might ? It is gone in the wind. 
Like the swift shadows of noon, like the dreams of 

the blind, 
Vanish the glories and pomps of the earth in the wind. 


Man, canst thou build upon aught in the pride of thy 

mind ? 

Wisdom will teach thee that nothing can tarry behind : 
Tho' there be thousand bright actions embalmed and 

Myriads and millions of brighter are snow in the wind. 

Solomon, where is thy throne ? It is gone in the wind. 
Babylon, where is thy might ? It is gone in the wind. 
All that the genius of man hath achieved or designed 
Waits but its hour to be dealt with as dust by the 

Say, what is pleasure ? A phantom, a mask undefined ; 
Science ? An almond, whereof we can pierce but the 

rind ; 
Honor and affluence ? Firmans that Fortune hath 

Only to glitter and pass on the wings of the wind. 

Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the 

Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the 

Who is the fortunate? He who in anguish hath 

pined ! 
He shall rejoice when his relics are dust in the wind. 

Mortal, be careful with what thy best hopes are en- 
twined ; 

Woe to the miners for Truth, where the lampless 
have mined ! 


Woe to the seekers on earth for what none ever find : 
They and their trust shall be scattered like leaves on 
the wind. 

Solomon, where is thy throne ? It is gone in the 

Babylon, where is thy might ? It is gone in the 

Happy in death are they only whose hearts have 

All earth's affections and longings and cares to the 


Pity thou, reader, the madness of poor humankind 
Raving of knowledge ; (and Satan so busy to blind !) 
Raving of glory, like me; for the garlands I bind, 
Garlands of song, are but gathered, and strewn in the 

Solomon, where is thy throne r It is gone in the 

Babylon, where is thy might ? It is gone in the 


I, Abul-Namez, must rest ; for my fire is declined, 
And I hear voices from Hades like bells on the wind. 




" Glaive that lightenest by my side, 

What may mean thy bright sheen ? 

Glaive that lightenest by my side, 

Wouldst thou woo me as a bride, 

To the red battle-ground, 

Hurrah ! 

Where the thunders of the cannon resound ? 


Where the thunders of the cannon resound ? " 

" Gallant master, valiant knight ! 
I rejoice in thy voice ! 
Gallant master, valiant knight ! 
I so shine, so lighten bright, 

1 " Korner, as most of my readers are aware, was one of the most enthu- 
siastic and heroic of those young German patriots who so nobly rose up in 
the year 1813, to protect the liberties of their fatherland against foreign 
aggression. He was gifted with both genius and courage of a high degree; 
and the character of his short life, which terminated at the early age of 
twenty-two, is faithfully symbolized by the lyre and sword which stand 
t-'>ssed upon his tomb at Babelow, in Mecldenburgh-Schwerin. The fol- 
lowing song, which lie is said to have written a few hours before his death 
on the battle-plain of Gadebusch, in August, 1813, has long held rank 
among the young Germanists as their Marseillaise ; but no translation of it 
worth looking at, so far as I am aw.ire, has as yet appeared in English, and 
perhaps I may not have succeeded bitter than others in my attempt to trans- 
pose the spirit of it into that language. To be thoroughly understood and 
felt it should be heard in the Burschfnsaal at ffna, where the students sing it 
in chorus, crossing their swords with each other at the recurrence of each 
'Hurrah ! ' It L-, needli-:.., to ...M that Mangan never so heard it. 


I, thy bride and thy glaive, 

Hurrah ! 

Because wedded to a hero so brave, 

Hurrah ! 

Because wedded to a hero so brave ! " 

" True ! my joyous brilliant steel, 

I am brave, am no slave ; 

True ! my joyous brilliant steel ! 

And to-day, for woe or weal, 

Here I plight thee my troth, 


It is victory or death for us both ! 

Hurrah ! 

It is victory or death for us both ! " 

" O thy bride delights to hear 

That glad shout thus rung out ! 

O thy bride delights to hear 

That proud peal so clarion-clear ! 

When, O when dawns the day, 

Hurrah ! 

When thou bearest thy beloved away, 

Hurrah ! 

When thou bearest thy beloved away ? " 

u When the drums beat loud to arms 
Then is born that bright morn ! 
When the drums beat loud to arms, 
When the thrilling bugle warms 
The quick blood in all veins ; 
Hurrah ! 


Then I bear thee to the red battle-plains, 

Hurrah ! 

Then I bear thee to the red battle-plains ! " 

" O that glorious day of days, 

May its noon shine out soon, 

Shine out soon with blood-red rays ! 

O that glorious day of days ! 

May it dawn and expire, 

Hurrah ! 

Amid trumpet-blasts and thunder and fire, 

Hurrah ! 

Amid trumpet-blasts and thunder and fire ! " 

" Why so restless, bride of mine ? 

Why just now startedst thou ? 

Why so restless, bride of mine, 

In that iron room of thine ? 

Thou art restless and wild, 

Hurrah ! 

Thou art wild in thy delight as a child, 

Hurrah ! 

Thou art wild in thy delight as a child ! " 

" Wild I am in my delight 

Wild and glad, wild and mad ! 

Wild I am in my delight 

Thirsting, burning for the fight, 

When the glaive and the gun, 

Hurrah ! 

Blend the lightning and the earthquake in one, 

Hurrah ! 

Blend the lightning and the earthquake in one ! " 


" Quiet thee, my hope, my heart : 

Bear the gloom of thy room ! 

Quiet thee, my hope, my heart : 

Bide a season where thou art. 

Thou shalt soon be released, 

Hurrah ! 

And shalt banquet at the great battle-feast, 

Hurrah ! 

And shalt banquet at the great battle-feast ! " 

" I must forth ! O let us rove, 

Hand in hand, o'er the land. 

I must forth ! I burn to rove 

Through the gardens of my love, 

Where the roses, blood-red, 

Hurrah ! 

Bloom in brilliantest array o'er the dead, 

Hurrah ! 

Bloom in brilliantest array o'er the dead ! " 

" As thou wilt, then, faithful one ! 

South or north, we'll go forth ! 

As thou wilt, then, faithful one. 

Let us follow fortune on 

Over hill, dell, and heath, 

Hurrah ! 

Till I deck thee with my first laurel-wreath, 

Hurrah ! 

Till I deck thee with my first laurel-wreath ! 

" O joy ! joy ! Lead on, O lead ! 
Now are we truly free. 


O joy ! joy ! Lead on, O lead ! 

Onward, forward, will we speed 

To the broad nuptial-plain, 

Hurrah ! 

Where we'll wed amid the tempest and red rain, 

Hurrah ! 

Where we'll wed amid the tempest and red rain ! " 

So spake out, in joy and pride, 

On their way to the fray, 

So spake out, in joy and pride 

One young bridegroom and his bride. 

Up, then, youth of the land ! 

Hurrah ! 

Up, and proffer your beloved the hand ! 

Hurrah ! 

Up and proffer your beloved the hand. 

Let her not hang down her head, 

Her, your bride, by your side ! 

Let her not hang down her head, 

By your side, as one half-dead : 

Let her feel your embrace, 

Hurrah ! 

Let her glory shed its rays on your face, 

Hurrah f 

Let her glory shed its rays on your face ! 

Press her bright mouth unto yours ! 
Cold it seems, but its beams 
Arc the brave man's warmest lures. 
Press her bright mouth unto yours ! 


She should not be denied, 


Cursed is he who basely turns from the bride, 

Hurrah ! 

Cursed is he who basely turns from the bride. 

Brothers, look ! The morning breaks. 

Up, arise ! for time flies : 

Brothers, look ! The morning breaks, 

The sky reddens, the earth shakes. 

Are you true men and good ? 

Hurrah ! 

Then be foremost at the Bridal of Blood ! 

Hurrah ! 

Stand up foremost at the Bridal of Blood ! 



The sun is warm, the air is bland, 
The heavens wear that stainless blue 
Which only in an orient land 
The eye of man may view ; 
And lo ! around, and all abroad 
A glittering host, a mighty horde; 
And at their head a demigod 
Who slays with lightning sword. 

The bright noon burns, but idly now 
Those warriors rest by vale and hill, 


And shadows on their leader's brow 
Seem ominous of ill. 
Spell-bound, he stands beside a tree ; 
And well he may, for, through its leaves 
Unstirred by wind, come brokenly 
Moans, as of one that grieves. 

How strange ! he thought : life is a boon 
Given and resumed ; but how, and when ? 
E'en now, I asked myself how soon 
I should go home again ; 
How soon I might again behold 
My mourning mother's tearful face, 
How soon my kindred might enfold 
Me in their dear embrace ! 

There was an Indian magian there, 

And, stepping forth, he bent his knee. 

" O King ! " he said, " be wise : beware 

This too prophetic tree." 

-' Ha ! " cried the King, " thou knowest, then, seer, 

What yon strange oracle reveals ? " 

" Alas ! " the magian said, " I hear 

Deep words like thunder-peals. 

I hear the groans of more than man, 
Hear tones that warn, denounce, beseech ; 
Hear, woe is me ! how darkly ran 
That strain of thrilling speech. 
' C) King,' it spake, 'all-trampling King, 
I hou leadest legions from afar, 
But battle droops his clotted wing, (20) 
Ni^ht menaces thy star ! 


Fond visions of thy boyhood's years 
Dawn like dim light upon thy soul ; 
Thou seest again thy mother's tears 
Which love could not control. 
Ah, thy career in sooth is run, 
Ah, thou indeed returnest home ; 
The mother waits to clasp her son 
Low in her gloomful dome ! 

Yet go rejoicing : he who reigns 
O'er earth alone, leaves worlds unscanned ; 
Life binds the spirit as with chains : 
Seek thou the phantom-land ! 
Leave conquest all it looks for here ; 
Leave willing slaves a bloody throne ; 
Thine henceforth is another sphere : 
Death's realm, the dark unknown ! ' ' 

The magian ceased. The leaves were hushed, 

Rut wailings broke from all around ; 

Until the chief, whose red blood flushed 

His cheek with hotter bound, 

Spake in the tones of one with whom 

Fear never yet had been a guest : 

" And when doth Fate achieve my doom ? 

And where shall be my rest? " 

" O noble heart ! " the magian said, 
And tears unbidden filled his eyes, 
"We should not weep for thee; the dead 
Change but their home and skies ; 
The moon shall beam, the myrtles bloom 
For thee no more ; yet, sorrow not ! 


The immortal pomp of Hades' gloom 
Best consecrates thy lot. 

In June, in June, in laughing June, 
And where the dells show deepest green, 
Pavilioned overhead at noon 
With gold and silver sheen, 
These be for thee the place, the time. 
Trust not thy heart, trust not thine eyes : 
Beyond the mount thy warm hopes climb 
The land of darkness lies ! " 

Unblenching at the fateful words, 
The hero turned around in haste. 
" On, on ! " he cried, " ye million swords : 
Your course, like mine, is traced. 
Let me but close life's narrow span 
Where weapons clash and banners wave ! 
I would not live to mourn that man 
But conquers for a grave." 



O strew the way with rosy flowers, 

And dupe with smiles thy grief and gloom ! 

For tarnished leaves and songless hours 

Await thee in the tomb. 

Lo, in the brilliant festal hall 

How lightly youth and beauty tread ! 


Yet, gaze again : the grass is tall 
Above their charnel bed. 

In blaze of noon the jewelled bride 
Before the altar plights her faith : 
Ere weep the skies of eventide 
Her eyes are dulled in death. 
Then sigh no more. If life be brief, 
So are its woes ; and why repine ? 
Pavilioned by the linden leaf, 
We'll quaff the chaliced wine. 

Wild music from the nightingale 
Comes floating on the loaded breeze, 
To mingle in the bowery vale 
With hum of summer bees ; 
Then taste the joys that God bestows, 
The beaded wine, the faithful kiss! 
For while the tide of pleasure flows, 
Death bares his black abyss. 

In vain the zephyr's breath perfumes 
The house of death ; in vain its tones 
Shall mourn at midnight round the tombs 
Where sleep our blackening bones. 
The star-bright bowl is broken there, 
The witchery of the lute is o'er, 
And, wreck of wrecks ! there lie the fair 
Whose beauty wins no more. 




Sir Olf rode fast toward Thurlston's walls 
To meet his bride in his father's halls. 

He saw blue lights flit over the graves; 
The elves came forth from their forest caves. 

They dance anear on the glossy strand, 

And the erl-king's daughter held out her hand. 

" Oh, welcome, Sir Olf! to our jubilee : 
Step into the circle, and dance with me." 

" I dare not dance, I dare not stay : 
To-morrow will be my nuptial day ! " 

" Two golden spurs will I give to thee ; 
And I pray thee, Sir Olf, to tarry with t/ie." 

" 1 dare not tarry, I dare not delay : 
To-morrow is fixed for my nuptial day ! 

" IV ill give thee a shirt so white and fine 
ll^as bleached yestreen in the neiv moonshine" 

" 1 dare not hearken to elf nor fay ! 
To-morrow is fixed for my nuptial day." 

" A measure of gold I will give unto thee ; 
And I pray thee, Sir Olf, to dance -with ///<'." 


u The measure of gold will I carry away, 
But I dare not dance, and I dare not stay." 

u Then, since tbou wilt go, even go with a blight ! 
A true-lover's token I leave thee, sir knight" 

She lightly struck with her wand on his heart, 

And he swooned and swooned from the deadly smart ; 

She lifted him up on his coal-black steed: 
u Now hie thee away with a fatal speed ! " 

Then shone the moon, and howled the wolf, 
And the sheen and the howl awoke Sir Olf. 

He rode over mead, he rode over moor; 
He rode till he rode to his own house door. 

Within sat, white as the marble, his bride; 

But his gray-haired mother stood watching outside. 

" My son, my son, thou art haggard and wan ! 
Thy brow is the brow of a dying man." 

" And haggard and wan I well may be, 

For the erl-king's daughter hath wounded me." 

" I pray thee, my son, dismount, and bide. 
There is mist on the eyes of thy pining bride." 

"O mother! I should but drop dead from my steed. 
I will wander abroad for the strength I need." 


" And what shall I tell thy bride, my son, 

When the morning dawns, and the tiring is done ? " 

" Oh, tell my bride that I rode to the wood 

With my hounds in leash, and my hawk in hood." 

When morning dawned with crimson and gray, 
The bride came forth in her wedding array. 

They poured out mead, they poured out wine: 
"Now, where is thy son, O gold-mother mine?" 

" My son, gold-daughter, rode into the wood, 
With his hounds in leash, and his hawk in hood." 

Then the bride grew sick with an ominous dread : 
" Ah, woe is me! for Sir Olf is dead." 

She drooped like a lily that feels the blast; 
She drooped, and drooped, till she died ; at last 

They rest in the charnel side by side, 
The stricken Sir Olf and his faithful bride. 

But the erl-king's daughter dances still 

Where the moonlight sleeps on the frosted hill. 




Blest are the dormant 

In death : they repose 

From bondage and torment, 

From passions and woes, 

From the yoke of the world and the snares of the 

The grave, the grave is the true liberator ! 

Griefs chase one another 

Around the earth's dome ; 

In the arms of the mother 

Alone is our home. 

Woo pleasure, ye triflers ! The thoughtful are wiser: 

The grave, the grave is their one tranquillizer ! 

Is the good man unfriended 

On life's ocean-path, 

Where storms have expended 

Their turbulent wrath ? 

Are his labors requited by slander and rancor? 

The grave, the grave is his sure bower-anchor ! 

To gaze on the faces 

Of lost ones anew, 

To lock in embraces 

The loved and the true, 

Were a rapture to make even Paradise brighter. 

The grave, the grave is the great reumter ! 


Crown the corpse then with laurels, 

The conqueror's wreath, 

Make joyous with carols 

The chamber of death, 

And welcome the victor with cymbal and psalter : 

The grave, the grave is the only exalter ! 



When the roses blow, 

Man looks out for brighter hours ; 

When the roses glow, 

Hope relights her lampless bowers. 

Much that seemed, in winter gloom, 

Dark with heavy woe, 

Wears a gladsome hue and bloom 

When the roses blow, 

When the roses blow ; 

Wears a gladsome hue and bloom 

When the roses blow ! 

When the roses blow, 

Love that slept shall wake anew; 

Merrier blood shall flow 

Through the springald's veins of blue. 

And if sorrow wrung the heart, 

Even that shall go : 

Pain and mourning must depart 

When the roses blow, 

When the roses blow; 


Pain and mourning must depart 
When the roses blow ! 

When the roses blow, (22) 

Look to heaven, my fainting soul : 

There, in stainless show, 

Spreads the veil that hides thy goal. 

Not while winter breathes his blight, 

Burst thy bonds below : 

Let the earth look proud and bright, 

Let the roses blow, 

Let the roses blow. 

O let earth look proud and bright, 

Let the roses blow ! 



As a headlong stream that winter had bound, 
When spring re-showers her beams on the plains 
Breaks loose with a fierce impatient sound 
From its icy chains : 

As a tree, despoiled by the axe of the north 
Of his leaves of green, and fruits of gold, 
New leaves, new fruits, afresh puts forth, 
As bright as the old : 

As riotous wine, whose fiery strength 

By the walls of the flask was prisoned long, 


Out-gushes in purple pride at length, 
A bubbling song : 

As the pealing of some vast organ floats 
On the air to the ear of him who has heard, 
In many long days, but the piping notes 
Of the coppice bird : 

So rushes, Uhland ! so streams and rolls 
The flood of thy song, a flood of fire ! 
So thrills thro' the depths of all hearts and souls 
The might of thy lyre ! 



What tho' no maiden's tears ever be shed 
O'er my clay bed, 

Yet will the generous night never refuse 
To weep its dews. 

And tho' no friendly hand garland the cross 
Above my moss, 

Still will the dear, dear moon tenderly shine- 
Down on that sign. 

And if the saunterer-by songlessly pass 
Thro' the long grass, 

There will the noontide bee pleasantly hum, 
And warm winds come. 


Yes, you at least, ye dells, meadows, and streams, 
Stars and moonbeams, 

Will think on him whose weak meritless lays 
Teemed with your praise ! 



Fare thee well, fare thee well, my dove ! 
Thou and I must sever; 
One fond kiss, one fond kiss of love, 
Ere we part for ever : 

And one rose, one red rose, Marie, 
Choose me from the bowers ; 
But no fruit, ah ! no fruit for me, 
Naught but fragile flowers. 



Look, look ! this wine is German. 
Therefore streams it full and flowing, 
Therefore beams it bold and glowing; 
Therefore, like a thirsty merman, 
(^uaffthe brilliant cup divine: 
Brother, this is German wine ! 

Fill, till a bumper goblet ! 

Fill it high, and toast our olden 


Fatherland, and them, the golden 
Maids and men who aye ennoble it. 
Fill the purple cup divine : 
Brother, this is German wine ! 

Drink, drink to ancient usage : 
May their memory greenly flourish, 
Who of yore were first to nourish 
Flesh and soul with this, and grew sage, 
Quaffing such immortal wine. 
Drink the Fathers of the vine ! 

Toast, toast the resurrection 
Of our country from her torpor ! 
We have spurned the French usurper; 
Freedom binds us and affection, 
Me with thee, and mine with thine : 
Toast our triumph here in wine ! 

German worth and German wine, 
German speech and German manners, 
Be the motto on our banners ! 
None can tremble, none can pine, 
While he drinks of German wine. 


Where are they, the beloved, 
The gladsome, all ? 
Where are they, the beloved, 
The gladsome, all ? 


They left the festal hearth and hall. 

They pine afar from us in alien climes. 

O, who shall bring them back to us once more ? 

Who shall restore 

Life's fairy floral times ? 


Life's fairy floral times ? 

Where are they, the beloved, 

The gallant, all ? 

Where are they, the beloved, 

The gallant, all ? 

At freedom's thrilling clarion-call 

They went forth in the pride of youthhood's powers. 

O, who shall give them back to us once more ? 

Who shall restore 

Long-buried hearts and hours ? 


Long-buried hearts and hours ? 

Where are they, the beloved, 

The gifted, all ? 

Where are they, the beloved, 

The gifted, all ? 

They would not yield their souls the thrall 

Of gold, nor sell the glory of their lays. 

O, who shall give them back to us once more ? 

Who shall restore 

The bright young songful days ? 


The bright young songful days ? 


God only can restore us 

The lost ones all, 

But God He will restore us 

The lost ones all ! 

What tho' the future's shadows fall 

Dark o'er their fate, seen darker through our tears, 

Our God will give them back to us once more. 

He can restore 

The vanished golden years ; 


The vanished golden years ! 



There blooms a beautiful Flower, it blooms in a far- 
off land ; 

Its life has a mystic meaning for few to understand. 

Its leaves illumine the valley, its odor scents the 
wood ; 

And if evil men come near it, they grow for the 
moment good. 

When the winds are tranced in slumber, the rays of 

this luminous Flower 
Shed glory more than earthly o'er lake and hill and 

bower ; 
The hut, the hall, the palace, yea, earth's forsakenest 

Shine out in the wondrous lustre that fills the heaven 

of God. 


Three Kings came once to a hostel wherein lay the 

Flower so rare : 

A star shone over its roof, and they knelt adoring there. 
Whenever thou seest a damsel whose young eyes 

dazzle and win, 
O pray that her heart may cherish this Flower of 

Flowers within ! 



She said : " I was not born to mope at home in lone- 

The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

She said : " I was not born to mope at home in lone- 

When the heart is throbbing sorest, there is balsam in 
the forest, 

There is balsam in the forest for its pain," 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 

Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

She doffed her silks and pearls, and donned instead 

her hunting-gear, 
The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
She doffed her silks and pearls, and donned instead 

her hunting-gear, 

And, till summer-time was over, as a huntress and a rover 
Did she couch upon the mountain and the plain, 
She, the Lady Eleanora, 
Noble Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 


Returning home again, she viewed with scorn the 

The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Returning home again, she viewed with scorn the 
tournaments ; 

She saw the morions cloven, and the crowning chap- 
lets woven, 

And the sight awakened only the disdain 

Of the Lady Eleanora, 

Of the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

"My feeling towards man is one of utter scornful- 

Said Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

" My feeling towards man is one of utter scornful- 
ness ; 

And he that would o'ercome it, let him ride around 
the summit 

Of my battlemented castle by the Maine ! " 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 

Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

So came a knight anon to ride around the parapet 
For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
So came a knight anon to ride around the parapet : 
Man and horse were hurled together o'er the crags 

that beetled nether. 

Said the lady, "There, I fancy, they'll remain ! " 
Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Queenly Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 


Then came another knight to ride around the parapet 
For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Then came another knight to ride around the parapet. 
Man and horse fell down, asunder, o'er the crags that 

beetled under. 

Said the lady, u They'll not leap the leap again ! " 
Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Lovely Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Came other knights anon to ride around the parapet 
For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Came other knights anon to ride around the parapet ; 
Till six and thirty corses of both mangled men and 


Had been sacrificed victims at the fane 
Of the Lady Eleanora, 
Stately Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

That woeful year was by, and Ritter none came after- 

To Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

That woeful year was by, and Ritter none came after- 
wards ; 

The castle's lonely basscourt looked a wild o'er-grown- 
with-grass court ; 

'Twas abandoned by the Rittcrs and their train 

To the Lady Eleanora, 

Haughty Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

She clomb the silent wall, she gazed around her sovran- 
The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 


She c/omb the silent wall, she gazed around her sovran- 

u And wherefore have departed all the brave, the lion- 

Who have left me here to play the castellaine ? " 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 

Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

41 And is it fled for aye, the palmy time of chivalry?" 
Cried Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
" And is it fled for aye, the palmy time of chivalry ? 
Shame light upon the cravens ! May their corpses 

gorge the ravens, 

Since they tremble thus to wear a woman's chain," 
Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

The story reached, at Gratz, the gallant Margrave 


Of Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
The story reached, at Gratz, the gallant Margrave 

Quoth he : "I trow the woman must be more or less 

than human ; 

She is worth a little peaceable campaign, 
Is the Lady Eleanora, 
Is the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! " 

He trained a horse to pace round narrow stones laid 

For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 


He trained a horse to pace round narrow stones laid 

" Good gray ! do thou thy duty ; and this rocky- 
bosomed beauty 

Shall be taught that all the vauntings are in vain 

Of the Lady Eleanora, 

Of the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne." 

He left his castle-halls, he came to Lady Eleanor's, 
The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
He left his castle-halls, he came to Lady Eleanor's. 
" O lady best and fairest, here am I ! and, if thou 


I will gallop round the parapet amain, 
Noble Lady Eleanora, 
Noble Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! " 

She saw him spring to horse, that gallant Margrave 


The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
She saw him spring to horse, that gallant Margrave 

" O bitter, bitter sorrow ! I shall weep for this 

to-morrow ; 

It were better that in battle he were slain," 
Said the Lady P^leanora, 
Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Then rode he round and round the battlemented 

For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 


Then rode he round and round the battlemented 

parapet : 
The lady wept and trembled, and her paly face 


As she looked away, a lily wet with rain ; 
Hapless Lady Eleanora, 
Hapless Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

So rode he round and round the battlemented parapet, 
For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne; 
So rode he round and round the battlemented parapet. 
" Accursed be my ambition ! He but rideth to perdi- 

He but rideth to perdition without rein ! " 
Wept the Lady Eleanora, 
Wept the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Yet rode he round and round the battlemented parapet, 
For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Yet rode he round and round the battlemented parapet. 
Meanwhile her terror shook her, yea, her breath well 

nigh forsook her ; 

Fire was burning in the bosom and the brain 
Of the Lady Eleanora, 
Of the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

Then rode he round and off the battlemented parapet, 
To Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Then rode he round and oft the battlemented parapet ! 
u Now blest be God for ever ! This is marvellous ! 
I never 


Cherished hope of laying eyes on thee again ! " 

Cried the Lady Eleanora, 

Joyous Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

" The man of men thou art, for thou hast fairly con- 
quered me, 

The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

The man of men thou art, for thou hast fairly con- 
quered me : 

I greet thee as my lover, and, ere many days be 

Thou shalt wed me and be lord of my domain ! " 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 

Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Then bowed the graceful knight, the gallant Mar- 
grave Gondibert, 

To Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Then bowed that graceful knight, the gallant Mar- 
grave Gondibert, 

And thus he answered coldly : " There be many who 
as boldly 

Will adventure an achievement they disdain 

Eor the Lady Eleanora, 

For the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Mayest bide until they come, O stately Lady 
Eleanor ! 

O Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

Mayest bide until they come, O stately Lady Elea- 
nor ! 


And thou and they may marry ; but, for me, I must 

not tarry : 

I have won a wife already out of Spain, 
Virgin Lady Eleanora, 
Virgin Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! " 

Thereon he rode away, the gallant Margrave Gondi- 


From Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Thereon he rode away, the gallant Margrave Gondi- 

And long in shame and anguish did that haughty lady 


Did she languish without pity for her pain, 
She, the Lady Eleanora, 
She, the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

And year went after year, and still in barren maiden- 

Lived Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

And wrinkled eld crept on, and still her lot was 

And, woe ! her end was tragic : she was changed, at 
length, by magic, 

To an ugly wooden image, they maintain ! 

She, the Lady Eleanora, 

She, the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

And now, before the gate, in sight of all, transmog- 

Stands Lady Eleanora von Allevne. 
Before her castle-gate, in sight of all, transmogrified ! 


And he that won't salute her must be fined in foam- 
ing pewter, 

If a boor; but, if a burgher, in champagne, 
For the Lady Eleanora, 
Wooden Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

MY HOME (26) 


Morn and eve a star invites me, 

One imploring silver star, 

Woos me, calls me, lures me, lights me 

To the desert deeps afar, 

To a lovely orient land, 

Where the sun at morning early 

Rises fresh, and young, and glowing ; 

Where the air is light and bland, 

And the falling raindrops pearly : 

Therefore am I going, going 

Home to this my lovely land, 

Where the sun at morning early 

Rises fresh, and young, and glowing; 

Where the airs are light and bland, 

And the rain is warm and pearly : 

All unheeding, all unknowing, 

I am speeding, I am going, 

Going home to my, to my land, 

To my only lonely island 

In the desert deeps afar; 

Yet unknowing, and undreaming 


Why I go, or how, or whither, 
Save that one imploring star, 
Ever-burning, ever-beaming, 
Woos me, lures me, lights me thither. 



Tap, tap, rap, rap ! " Get up, gaffer Ferryman." 

" Eh ! Who is there ? " The clock strikes three. 

" Get up, do, gaffer ! You are the very man 

We have been long, long, longing to see." 

The ferryman rises, growling and grumbling, 

And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumbling 

Over the wares on his way to the door. 

But he sees no more 

Than he saw before, 

Till a voice is heard : " O Ferryman dear ! 

Here we are waiting, all of us, here. 

We are a wee, wee colony, we ; 

Some two hundred in all, or three. 

Ferry us over the river Lee 

Ere dawn of day, 

And we will pay 

The most we may 

In our own wee way ! " 

" Who are vou ? Whence came you ? 
What place are you going to ? " 


" Oh, we have dwelt over-long in this land : 

The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, 

too ! 

Nothing at all but they now understand. 
We are daily vanishing under the thunder 
Of some huge engine or iron wonder; 
That iron, ah ! it has entered our souls." 
" Your souls ? O gholes, 
You queer little drolls, 
Do you mean ? " " Good gaffer, do aid us 

with speed, 

For our time, like our stature, is short indeed ! 
And a very long way we have to go : 
Ei;ht or ten thousand miles or so. 

O ' 

Hither and thither, and to and fro, 
With our pots and pans 
And little gold cans ; 
But our light caravans 
Run swifter than man's." 

" Well, well, you may come," said the ferryman 

affably : 

" Patrick, turn out, and get ready the barge." 
Then again to the little folk: " Tho' you seem 


Small, I don't mind, if your coppers be large." 
Oh, dear ! what a rushing, what pushing, what 


(The watermen making vain efforts at hushing 
The hubbub the while,) there followed these words ! 
What clapping of boards, 
What strapping of cords, 


What stowing away of children and wives, 

And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and knives ! 

Till all had safely got into the boat, 

And the ferryman, clad in his tip-top coat, 

And his wee little fairies were safely afloat. 

Then ding, ding, ding, 

And kling, kling, kling, 

How the coppers did ring 

In the tin pitcherling ! 

Off, then, went the boat, at first very pleasantly, 

Smoothly, and so forth ; but after a while 

It swayed and it swagged this and that way, and 


Chest after chest, and pile after pile, 
Of the little folk's goods began tossing and rolling, 
And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling. 
O Mab ! if the hubbub were great before, 
It was now some two or three million times more. 
Crash ! went the wee crocks and the clocks ; and the 


Of each little wee box were stove in by hard knocks ; 
And then there were oaths, and prayers, and cries : 
" Take care ! " - " See there ! " " Oh, dear, my 

eyes ! " 
" I am killed ! " - " I am drowned ! " with groans 

and sighs, 

Till to land they drew. 
" Yeo-ho ! Pull to ! 
Tiller-rope, thro' and thro' ! " 
And all's ri<rht anew. 


u Now jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities. 

(Eh, what is this ? . . . Where are they, at all ? 

Where are they, and where are their tiny commodi- 
ties ? 

Well, as I live !"...) He looks blank as a wall, 

Poor ferryman ! Round him and round him he 

But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes 

Of utter bewilderment. All, all are gone, 

And he stands alone, 

Like a statue of stone, 

In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, 

And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear, 

With other odd sounds : " Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Fol lol ! zidzizzle ! quee quee ! bah ! bah ! 

Fizzigigiggidy ! pshee ! sha sha ! " 

" O ye thieves, ye thieves, ye rascally thieves ! " 

The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher, 

And there, alas, to his horror perceives 

That the little folk's mode of making him richer 

Has been to pay him with withered leaves ! 



Farewell for ever to all I love, 

To river and rock, farewell ; 

To Zoumlah's gloomful cypress-grove, 

And Shaarmal's tulipy dell ! 


To Deenween-Kullaha's light blue bay, 

And Oreb's lonely strand ! 

My race is run ; I am called away : 

I go to the lampless land. 

'Llah Hu ! 

I am called away from the light of day 

To my tent in the dark dark land ; 

I have seen the standard of Ali stained 
With the blood of the brave and free, 
And the Kaaba's venerable stone profaned 
By the truculent Wahabee. 

Allah, for the light of another sun, 
With my Bazra sword in hand ! 

But I rave in vain ; my course is run : 

1 go to the lampless land. 
'Llah Hu ! 

My course is run, my goal is won, 
I go to the dark dark land ! 

Yet, why should I live a day, an hour ? 

The friends I valued lie low ; 

My sisters dance in the halls of the Giaour, 

My brethren fight for the foe. 

None stood by the banner this arm unfurled 

Save Kharada's mountain-band ! 

'Tis well that I leave so base a world, 

Tho' to dwell in the lampless land. 

'Llah Hu ! 

'Tis well that I leave so false a world, 

Tho' to dwell in the dark dark land ! 


Even she, my loved and lost Ameen, 

The moon-white pearl of my soul, 

Could pawn her peace for the show and sheen 

Of silken Istambol. 

How little did I bode what a year would see 

When we parted at Sarmarcand; 

My bride in the harem of the Osmanlee, 

Myself in the lampless land. 

'Llah Hu ! 

My bride in the harem of the Osmanlee, 

Myself in the dark dark land ! 

We weep for the noble who perish young, 

Like flowers before their bloom ; 

The great-souled few, who, unseen and unsung, 

Go down to the charnel's gloom ; 

But, written on the brow of each, if man 

Could read it and understand, 

Is the changeless decree of Heaven's divan : 

We are born for the lampless land ! 

'Llah Hu! 

By the dread firman of Heaven's divan, 

All are born for the dark dark land ! 

The wasted moon has a marvellous look 

Amiddle of the starry hordes ; 

The heavens, too, shine like a mystic book 

All bright with burning words. 

The mists of the dawn begin to dislimn 

Zahara's castles of sand. 

Farewell ! farewell ! Mine eyes feel dim : 

They turn to the lampless land. 


'Llah Hu ! 

My heart is weary, mine eyes are dim, 

I would rest in the dark dark land ! 



I saw her once, one little while, and then no more : 
'Twas Eden's light on earth awhile, and then no more. 
Amid the throng, she passed along the meadow-floor: 
Spring seemed to smile on earth awhile, and then no 

But whence she came, which way she went, what 

garb she wore, 
I noted not ; I gazed awhile, and then no more. 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more : 
'Twas Paradise on earth awhile, and then no more : 
Ah ! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore ? 
She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then no more. 
The shallop of my peace is wrecked on Beauty's shore ; 
Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more ! 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more : 
Earth looked like Heaven a little while, and then no 


Her presence thrilled and lightened to its inner core, 
My desert breast, a little while, and then no more. 
So may, perchance, a meteor glance at midnight 

Some ruined pile a little while, and then no more. 



1 saw her once, one little while, and then no more. 
The earth was Peri-land awhile, and then no more. 
O might I see but once again, as once before, 
Through chance or wile, that shape awhile, and then 

no more ! 
Death soon would heal my griefs : this heart, now sad 

and sore, 
Would beat anew a little while, and then no more ! 



" Hie to the wood, and seek thy sister, 

Son for ever gay ! 

Hie to the wood, and tell thy sister 

She bring home her mother's breast-knot, 

Son for ever gay." 

" Wandering in the wood I missed her, 
Golden mother gray ! 
In the wood I lost and missed her. 
Where she bides I guess and guess not, 
Golden mother gray." 

"Fare to the mill and seek thy brother, 

Son for ever gay ! 

Fetch him home to his mourning mother. 

See, the eve gets dark and darker, 

Son for ever gay." 


" Mother now he hath found another, 
Golden mother gray, 
Even the holy Virgin Mother ! 
Stark as death he lies ; none starker, 
Golden mother gray." 

" Hence, and find thy staffless father, 
Son for ever gay ! 

Green herbs went he forth to gather 
Mid the dews of morning early, 
Son for ever gay." 

"Vainly might I seek my father, 
Golden mother gray ! 
Heavenly herbs he now doth gather 
Where the dews shine bright and pearly, 
Golden mother gray." 

" When shall I again behold them, 
Son for ever gay ? 
When again shall I behold them, 
Ah, when fold them to my bosom, 
Son for ever gay ? " 

" To thy bosom shall thou fold them, 
Golden mother gray ! 
Thou shalt once again behold them 
When the blighted tree shall blossom, 
Golden mother gray." 

" When shall blossom tree that's blighted, 

Son for ever gay ? 

When can blossom tree that's blighted : 


Blighted tree may naught and none raise, 
Son for ever gay." 

" When the morn shall first be lighted, 
Golden mother gray ! 
When the morn shall first be lighted 
In the west, by western sun-rays, 
Golden mother gray." 

" When shall dawn that wondrous morning, 

Son for ever gay ? 

When shall break that wondrous morning ? 

When be seen the western sunrise, 

Son for ever gay ? " 

" When the Archangel's trump gives warning, 
Golden mother gray ! 
When the Judgment peal gives warning; 
When the dead shall every one rise, 
Golden mother gray." 



Where is thine arm, Italia ? why shouldst thou 
Fight with the stranger's ? Fierce alike to me 
Seem thy defender and thine enemy : 
Both were thy vassals once, tho' victors now. (29) 
Thus dost thou guard the wreath that bound thy brow, 
The wreck of perished empire ? When to thee 
Virtue and valor pledged their fealty 


Was this thy glorious promise, this thy vow? 
Go, then : reject thine ancient worth, and wed 
Degenerate sloth ; mid blood, and groans, and cries, 
Sleep on, all heedless of the loud alarms, 
Sleep, vile adulteress ! From thy guilty bed 
Too soon the avenging sword shall bid thee rise, 
Or pierce thee, slumbering in thy minion's arms. 


Here on the spot where stately cities rose, 

No stone is left, to mark in letters rude 

Where earth did her tremendous jaws unclose, 

Where Syracuse, or where Catania stood. 

Along the silent margin of the flood 

I seek, but cannot find ye ! Naught appears 

Save the deep-settled gloom of solitude, 

That checks my step, and fills mine eyes with tears. 

O Thou whose mighty arm the blow hath dealt, 
Whose justice gave the judgment ! shall not I 
Adore that power which I have seen and felt ? 
Rise from the depths of darkness where ye lie, 
Ye ghosts of buried cities ; rise, and be 
A sad memorial to futurity. 



Look, mother ! the mariner's rowing 
His galley adown the tide ; 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 
And be the mariner's bride! 


I saw him one day through the wicket, 

I opened the gate and we met ; 

As a bird in the fowler's net, 

Was I caught in my own green thicket. 

O mother, my tears are flowing, 

I've lost my maidenly pride : 

I'll go if the mariner's going, 

And be the mariner's bride ! 

This Love the tyrant evinces, 
Alas ! an omnipotent might ; 
He darkens the mind like night, 
He treads on the necks of princes ! 
O mother, my bosom is glowing! 
I'll go, whatever betide, 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 
And be the mariner's bride. 

Yes, mother, the spoiler has reft me 
Of reason and self-control ; 
Gone, gone is my wretched soul, 
And only my body is left me. 
The winds, O mother ! arc blowing, 
The ocean is bright and wide : 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 
And be the mariner's bride. 




O turn those eyes, unhappy King, 

O turn those eyes on ruined Spain ! 

Behold that glory vanishing 

That shone so long undimmed by stain 

See how her heroes bleed in vain ; 

See how the conquering Arabs trample 

Her golden fields, her vineyards ample; 

See this, and curse thy reckless reign ! 

(Alas, most wretched land, 

Lost for La Cava's lips and hand !) 

The memories of a thousand years, 

The lustre of the Gothic name, 

So wronged, that never blood nor tears 

Can wipe away the blighting shame; 

And this, to feed thy guilty flame ! 

O King, thy woes are but beginning : 

O King, thou losest by thy sinning 

Thy soul and body, crown and fame. 

(Alas, most wretched land, 

Lost for La Cava's lips and hand !) 



The day of wrath, the day of woe 
Shall lay the world in ashes low : 
As David and the Seers foreshow. 

What awe must e'en archangels feel 
When earth shall make her dread appeal 
To God, her Judge for woe or weal ! 

The marvellous trumpet's mighty tone 
Shall thrill the graves from zone to zone, 
And wake the dead to face the Throne. 

The whole dark ocean of the Past 
Shall answer to that earthquake blast, 
Till Death and Nature stand aghast. 

The accusing record lies unrolled : 

And all man thought and wrought of old, 

And hidden sins and shames, are told. 

Woe ! when the rended veil shall fall ! 

When Truth, in Heaven's own judgment-hall, 

Lays bare the shrinking souls of all. 

Where then can crime dare turn in trust ? 
What stay remains for sinful dust, 
When fear shall prostrate even the just ? 


Ah, great good God so long withstood ! 
I clasp Thy Son's redeeming rood : 
My fount of hope is Jesus' blood. 

On that dread day, just Judge of men, 
Let me not wake for Hell's dark den ; 
But be, O God ! my Saviour then. 

Original Poems 

I. Those purporting to be Translations 
from the Oriental Languages 


I see thee ever in my dreams, 

Karaman ! 

Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

As when thy gold-bright morning gleams, 

As when the deepening sunset seams 

With lines of light thy hills and streams, 

Karaman ! 

So thou loomest on my dreams, 

Karaman ! 

On all my dreams, my homesick dreams, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

The hot bright plains, the sun, the skies, 

Karaman ! 

Seem death-black marble to mine eyes, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

I turn from summer's blooms and dyes ; 

Yet in my dreams thou dost arise 

In welcome glory to mine eyes, 

Karaman ! 

In thee my life of life yet lies, 

Karaman ! 

Thou still art holy in mine eyes, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

Ere my fighting years were come, 
Karaman ! 



Troops were few in Erzerome, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

Their fiercest came from Erzerome, 

They came from Ukhbar's palace dome, 

They dragged me forth from thee, my home, 

Karaman ! 

Thee, my own, my mountain home, 

Karaman ! 

In life and death, my spirit's home, 

Karaman, () Karaman ! 

none of all my sisters ten, 
Karaman ! 

Loved like me my fellow-men, 
Karaman, () Karaman ! 

1 was mild as milk till then, 
I was soft as silk till then ; 
Now my breast is as a den, 
Karaman ! 

Foul with blood and bones of men, 
Karaman ! 

With blood and bones of slaughtered men, 
Karaman, O Karaman ! 

My boyhood's feelings newly born, 

Karaman ! 

Withered like young flowers uptorn, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

And in their stead sprang weed and thorn ; 

What once I loved now moves my scorn ; 

My burning eyes arc dried to horn, 


I hate the blessed light of morn, 
Karaman ! 

It maddens me, the face of morn, 
Karaman, O Karaman ! 

The Spahi wears a tyrant's chains, 

Karaman ! 

But bondage worse than this remains, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

His heart is black with million stains : 

Thereon, as on Kaf 's blasted plains, 

Shall nevermore fall dews and rains, 

Karaman ! 

Save poison-dews and bloody rains, 

Karaman ! 

Hell's poison-dews and bloody rains, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

But life at worst must end ere long, 

Karaman ! 

Azrael 1 avengeth every wrong, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

Of late my thoughts rove more among 

Thy fields ; o'ershadowing fancies throng 

My mind, and texts of bodeful song, 

Karaman ! 

Azrael is terrible and strong, 

Karaman ! 

His lightning sword smites all ere long, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

1 The angel of death. 


There's care to-night in Ukhbar's halls, 

Karaman ! 

There's hope, too, for his trodden thralls, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 

What lights flash red along yon walls ? 

Hark ! hark ! the muster-trumpet calls ! 

I see the sheen of spears and shawls, 

Karaman ! 

The foe ! the foe ! they scale the walls. 

Karaman ! 

To-night Murad or Ukhbar falls, 

Karaman, O Karaman ! 



La' laha, il Allah ! l 

Here we meet, we three, at length, 

Amrah, Osman, Perizad : 

Shorn of all our grace and strength, 

Poor, and old, and very sad. 

We have lived, but live no more; 

Life has lost its gloss for us, 

Since the days we spent of yore 

Boating down the Bosphorus ! 

La' laha, il Allah ! 

1 God alone is all-merciful ! 


The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 
Old time brought home no loss for us; 
We felt full of health and heart 
Upon the foamy Bosphorus ! 

La' /aha, il Allah ! 

Days indeed ! A shepherd's tent 

Served us then for house and fold; 

All to whom we gave or lent, 

Paid us back a thousand fold. 

Troublous years, by myriads wailed, 

Rarely had a cross for us, 

Never, when we gaily sailed 

Singing down the Bosphorus. 

La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! 

There never came a cross for us, 

While we daily, gaily sailed 

Adown the meadowy Bosphorus. 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Blithe as birds we flew along, 
Laughed and quaffed and stared about; 
Wine and roses, mirth and song, 
Were what most we cared about. 
Fame we left for quacks to seek, 
Gold was dust and dross for us, 
While we lived from week to week 
Boating clown the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 
And gold was dust and dross for us, 


While we lived from week to week 
Boating down the Bosphorus. 

La' /aha, il Allah / 

Friends we were, and would have shared 

Purses, had we twenty full. 

If we spent, or if we spared, 

Still our funds were plentiful. 

Save the hours we passed apart, 

Time brought home no loss for us; 

We felt full of hope and heart 

While we clove the Bosphorus. 

La* /aha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! 

For life has lost its gloss for us 

Since the days we spent of yore 

Upon the pleasant Bosphorus ! 

La' /aha, it Allah ! 

Ah! for youth's delirious hours, 

Man pays well in after-days, 

When quenched hopes and palsied powers 

Mock his love-and-laughter days. 

Thorns and thistles on our path 

Took the place of moss for us, 

Till false fortune's tempest-wrath 

Drove us from the Bosphorus. 

La' /aha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

When thorns took place of moss for us, 

Gone was all! Our hearts were graves 

Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus. 


La laha, II Allah ! 

Gone is all! In one abyss 

Lie health, youth, and merriment! 

All we've learned amounts to this: 

I/ife's a sad experiment! 

What it is we trebly feel 

Pondering what it was for us, 

When our shallop's bounding keel 

Clove the joyous Bosphorus. 

La' laha, II Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! 

We wail for what life was for us, 

When our shallop's bounding keel 

Clove the joyous Bosphorus ! 


La' laha, il Allah ! 

Pleasure tempts, yet man has none 

Save himself t' accuse, if her 

Temptings prove, when all is done, 

Lures hung out by Lucifer. 

Guard your fire in youth, () friends! 

Manhood's is but phosphorus, 

And bad luck attends and ends 

Boatings down the Bosphorus ! 

La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

Youth's fire soon wanes to phosphorus, 

And slight luck or grace attends 

Your boaters down the Bosphorus ! 



Slow thro' my bosom's veins their last cold blood is 

flowing ; 
Above my heart even now I feel the rank grass 

growing. (32) 

Hence to the land of naught the caravan is starting; 
Its bell already tolls the signal for departing. 
Rejoice, my soul, poor bird ! thou art at last delivered : 
Thy cage is crumbling fast, the bars will soon be 

Farewell this troubled world, where sin and crime 

run riot ! 
For Shahi henceforth rests in God's own house of 



Traverse not the globe for lore ! The sternest 
But the surest teacher is the heart ; 
Studying that and that alone, thou learnest 
Best and soonest whence and what thou art. 

Time, not travel, 'tis which gives us ready 
Speech, experience, prudence, tact, and wit : 
Far more light the lamp that bidcth steady 
Than the wandering lantern doth emit. 

1 Prince Bayazecd, son of Suleiman, was put to death in 1561 by Selim, 
Shah of Persia. This poem is said to have been written the night before 
his execution. 


Moor, Chinese, Egyptian, Russian, Roman, 
Tread one common down-hill path of doom ; 
Everywhere the names are man and woman, 
Everywhere the old sad sins find room. 

Evil angels tempt us in all places. 
What but sands or snows hath earth to give ? 
Dream not, friend, of deserts and oases ! 
But look inwards, and begin to live. 


Medreamt I was in Paradise, and there, a-drinking 


I saw our Father Adam, with his flowing golden hair. 
"O Father!" was my greeting, " my heart is faint 

with care : 
Tell me, tell me, are the Mooslemin of Aalya sons 

of thine ? " 

But the noble senior frowned, and his wavy golden hair 
Grew black as clouds at evening, when thunder 

thrills the air. 
" Nay, the Mooslemin of Aalya I disown for sons of 

mine ! " 
Then methought I wept, and beat my breast, and 

begged of him a sign. 
"O swear it, Father Adam!" So, dilating out, he 

sware : 
u If the Mooslemin of Aalyastan be kith or kin of 

Let dust for ever darken the glory of my hair ! " 



Allah Akbar ! 

All things vanish after brief careering : 

Down one gulf life's myriad barks are steering. 

Headlong mortal ! hast thou ears for hearing ? 

Pause, be wise: the night, thy night, is nearing; 

Night is nearing ! 

Allah Akbar! 

Towards the darkness whence no ray is peering, 
Towards the void from which no voice comes cheer- 

Move the countless doomed, none volunteering, 
While the winds rise, and the night is nearing, 
Night is nearing ! 

Allah Akbar ! 

See the palace-dome its pride uprearing 

One fleet hour, then darkly disappearing ! 

So must all of lofty or endearing 

Fade, fail, fall : to all the night is nearing, 

Night is nearing ! 

Allah Akbar! 

Then, since naught abides, but all is veering, 

Flee a world which sin is hourly searing : 

Only so mayst front thy fate un fearing, 

When life wanes, and death, like night, is nearing. 

Night is nearing ! 



My starlight, my moonlight, my midnight, my noon- 

Unveil not, unveil not ! or millions must pine. 
Ah, didst thou lay bare 
Those dark tresses of thine, 
Even night would seem bright 
To the hue of thy hair, which is black as despair. 

My starlight, my moonlight, my midnight, my noon- 

Unveil not, unveil not ! or millions must pine. 

Ah, didst thou disclose 

Those bright features of thine, 

The Red Vale 1 would look pale 

By thy cheek which so glows that it shames the rich 

My starlight, my moonlight, my midnight, my noon- 

Unveil not, unveil not ! or millions must pine. 
Ah, didst thou lay bare 
That white bosom of thine, 
The bright sun would grow dim 
Nigh a rival so rare ami so radiantly fair. 
My starlight, mv moonlight, mv midnight, my noon- 

J .' C? ' j J 


Unveil not, unveil not ! 

1 Kuzzil Ragh, the Rod Valley : in all probability the Valley of Roses 
at Edreen. 



Once I saw a City wide and fair 

And the pathways were enamelled all : 

He shall never die who enters there ! 

There he drinks of life's elixirs all. 

All the gates thereof are thirty-two, 

Wreathed gates, with stately pillars tall ; 

All the terraces of gold-bright hue ; 

Rich the vineyards and the gardens all. 

Silver fountain-waters, bright and still, 

Into alabaster basins fall ; 

Musk-scents load the airlets from the hill; 

There the garden-bowers are roses all. 

There sweet nightingales, like living flutes, 

Bind the senses and the soul in thrall ; 

Then the trees droop under brilliant fruits, 

Citrons, dates, pomegranates, peaches all. 

This fair City is unseen : it lies 

Isolated from one ball, 

Ranking higher far than Paradise : 

'Tis the goal the angels covet all, 

'Tis the City of the Truth alone, 

And of Truth's inestimable All. 

They whom Allah from the first hath known, 

Known and chosen, here are gathered all. 

Some drink precious wine, some selsibil l ; 

Some in bower, some in palace hall; 

All are passed the fear of ail and ill : 

Ecstasy-inebriated all ! 

1 The waters of life. 


Strangers they to passion and to sin ; 
Terrors shall no more their hours appal ; 
Neither storms without, nor strifes within. 
They are tranquil, they are happy, all. 
Swords are not for these : their days are free, 
Free from bitter feud and angry brawl, 
Free from wrangling speech and sophistry ; 
For the Holy Spirit dwells with all. 
Loving are their words, and honey-sweet, 
Unadulterate with envy's gall ; 
All their lives are peace : and when they meet, 
Oh, they meet indeed as brethren all ! 
Here are found no lower, higher ranks : 
Syrian, Turk, Egyptian, Grecian, Gaul, 
Swart and fair, Arabians, Persians, Franks, 
Here are linked in common union all. 
And as Truth is one, as God is one, 
So these denizens, both great and small, 
Are combined as one j and therefore none 
Seeks to be the Shah, or slave, of all. 
Yet our Prophet never tutored them ; 
Neither needed they Mohammed's call ! 
In the Truth they saw a lovelier gem 
Shining through the world alike for all, 1 
So their sect is mankind ; and their creed 
Thus is worded : God is all in all ! 
And His will and wish, where'er they lead 
Are their bliss, their glory, and their all. 

1 The author, Mohammed Niazi VI, lies buried in the ibland of Lemnos, 
to which he was banished for not speaking the doctrines of Islam strictly by 
the card. The peculiar character of his heterodoxy may be interred from 
these lines. 


Never drank they wine from golden bowls, 

Never wore the diamond-spangled shawl : 

Thus the devil could not spy these souls 

Who were shrouded in seclusion all. 

Early were they rescued from the abyss 

Of the snares and spells that oft enthrall 

Man's affections ; and the Bird of bliss 

Here sits perched upon the heads of all. 

They, enraptured, as the holy lyre 

Sweetly vibrates at their festival, 

Dread not woman, earthquake, storm, nor fire ; 

Plagues and genii are excluded all. 

This securest house, this dome where centre 

All delights, where perils ne'er befall 

Soul of guest, the houris shall not enter: 

Anpels form the only tenants all. 

O J 

Many lamps, refulgent from afar, 

Lured them towards the City's lofty wall, 

Yet was each a pure celestial star, 

And the hand of God had kindled all. 

Friend, wouldst thou too gain this glorious goal 

When the mourners bear thy funeral pall, 

Now by prayer and fasting cleanse thy soul ! 

Slay thy vanities and vices all. 

Look to God ! and then, though natural dusk 

O'er thy sunless evening sky must fall, 

Then, though camphor strew thy head for musk, 

He will beautify and brighten all ! 

We are voyagers on ocean dark, 

Yet can never billow, bolt, nor squall, 

Damage nor dismay our fragile bark, 

If the Lord but pilot us through all ! 


Heavenly light will bright our path at length, 

And that flood shine like another Dall l : 

God is each one's hope and tower of strength, 

And the hope and tower of strength of all. 

O stand up ! The serpent and his mates, 

But not man, were born to creep and crawl ; 

Reptile enters not the holy gates. 

Knowst thou not the saints look heavenward all ? 

How canst grovel in the mire, content 

As the brute which wallows in the stall ? 

Dost thou then imagine earth was meant 

As a burial-den for soul and all ? 

Harken to Niazi's warning song ! 

This is not a poet's idle scrawl : 

Thou must one day travel too along 

With the last great caravan of all. 

May thy road be smooth, and mayst thou see 

All the star-lamps on the City's wall 

Also beaconing and beckoning thee ! 

This is his one prayer for thee and all. 


Rests within this lonely mausoleum 

After life's distraction and fatigue, 

Leeh Rewaan, a man to hear and see whom 

Monks and princes journeyed many a league. 

Yet not Leeh Rewaan himself; but rather 
Leeh Rewaan's worn-out and cast-oft" dress : 

1 Lake of Cashmere. 


He, the man, dwells with his Heavenly Father 
In a land of light and loveliness. 

Shah of song he was ; and fond of laughter, 
Sweet sharaab, 1 and silver-spangled shawls. 
Stranger, mayst thou quaft" with him hereafter 
Life's red wine in Eden's palace-halls ! 


Tutor not thyself in science : go to masters for per- 

Also, speak thy thoughts aloud : 

Whoso in the glass beholdeth naught besides his own 

Bides both ignorant and proud. 

Study not in one art only : bee-like, rather, at a hundred 

Sources gather honeyed lore ; 

Thou wert else, that helpless bird which, when his 
nest has once been plundered, 

Ne'er can build another more. (34) 


Wonder not thou that the Sultan on earth is alone ! 
So is the sun that illumines the heavens, alone; 
So, tho' a forest of flowers have budded and blown, 
Always the garden sultana, the rose, is alone : 
The praise be to God ! 

1 Shrub, or sherbet. 


What is there great among mankind but standeth 

alone ? 

Lift up the eyes of thy soul to the Ottoman throne, 
Turn to the Kaaba, 1 and look at its wonderful Stone ; 
These, like the rose and the Sultan, are also alone: 
The praise be to God ! 

Wonder not thou that the Sultan on earth is alone : 
So is the moon in the hall of the planets alone ; 
So tho' a hundred rare instruments mingle in tone, 
Always the glittering crescent-and-bells is alone: 
The praise be to God ! 

What can the poet accomplish unless when alone, 
What, tho' in harness with one who is bone of his 

bone ? 

Never feels Lamyeh himself that his soul is his own, 
Save when he wanders thro' Brusa by moonlight 

alone : 
The praise be to God ! 

Wonder not, then, that the Sultan on earth is alone ! 
So, on the Balkans, the cedar ariseth alone; 
So, tho' a many rich brilliants emblazon thy zone, 
Always the emerald, monarch of gems, is alone: 
The praise be to God ! 

So stands the dome of Sophia for ever alone, 
Stands without sister since Ephesus' pride was o'er- 
thrown ; 

1 The Holy House of Mecca. 


Bagdad is fallen, and Balbec a ruin unknown, 
Leaving Stamboul and its mosque in their glory alone : 
The praise be to God ! 

Countless are Suleiman's beys, but himself is alone: 
Princes are slaves at his gate, yet he still is alone. 
So, altho' streams without number flow into the 

Done, 1 

Always that father of rivers himself is alone : 
The praise be to God! (35) 


Morning is blushing; the gay nightingales 
Warble their exquisite song in the vales; 
Spring, like a spirit, floats everywhere, 
Shaking sweet spice-showers loose from her hair, 
Murmurs half-musical sounds from the stream, 
Breathes in the valley, and shines in the beam. 
In, in at the portal that youth uncloses ! 
It hastes, it wastes, the time of the roses. 

Meadows and gardens and sun-lighted glades, 
Palaces, terraces, grottoes, and shades 
Woo thee; a fairy bird sings in thine ear: 
Come and be happy ! An Eden is here. 
Knowcst thou whether for thee there be any 
Years in the future? Ah, think on how many 
A young heart under the mould reposes, 
Nor feels how wheels the time of the roses ! 

1 Danube. 


In the red light of the many-leaved rose 
Mahomet's wonderful mantle reglows; 
Gaudier far, but as blooming and tender, 
Tulips and martagons revel in splendor. 
Drink from the chalice of joy, ye who may! 
Youth is a flower of early decay, 
And pleasure a monarch that age deposes, 
When past, at last, the time of the roses. 

See the young lilies, their scimitar-petals 
Glancing, like silver mid earthier metals: 
Dews of the brightest, in life-giving showers, 
Fall all the night on these luminous flowers: 
Each of them sparkles afar like a gem. 
Wouldst thou be smiling and happy like them? 
O follow all counsel that pleasure proposes ! 
It dies, it flies, the time of the roses. 

Pity the roses ! Each rose is a maiden 
Pranked, and with jewels of dew overladen: 
Pity the maidens! The moon of their bloom 
Rises to set in the cells of the tomb. 
Life has its winter; when summer is gone, 
Maidens, like roses, lie stricken and wan. 
Tho' bright as the burning bush of Moses, 
Soon fades, fair maids, the time of vour roses. 

Lustre and odors, and blossoms and flowers, 
All that is richest in garden and bowers, 
Teach us morality, speak of mortality, 
Whisper that life is a sweet unreality. 


Death is the end of that lustre, those odors: 
Brilliance and beauty are gloomy foreboders 
To him who knows what this world of woes is, 
And sees how flees the time of the roses ! 

Heed them not, hear them not ! Morning is blushing, 
Perfumes are wandering, fountains are gushing. 
What tho' the rose, like a virgin forbidden, 
Long under leafy pavilion lay hidden ? 
Now, far around as the vision can stretch, 
Wreaths for the pencil of angels to sketch, 
Festoon the tall hills that the landscape discloses. 
O sweet, tho' fleet, is the time of the roses ! 

Now the air, drunk from the breath of the flowers, 
Faints like a bride whom her bliss overpowers; 
Such and so rich is the fragrance that fills 
Ether and cloud, that its essence distils, 
As thro' thin lily-leaves, earthward again, 
Sprinkling with rose-water garden and plain. 
O joyously, after the winter closes, 
Returns and burns the time of the roses ! 

O for some magical vase to imprison 

All the sweet incense that yet has not risen, 

And the swift pearls that, radiant and rare, 

Glisten and drop thro' the hollows of air! 

Vain: they depart, both the beaming and fragrant; 

So, too, hope leaves us, and love proves a vagrant ; 

Too soon their entrancing illusion closes: 

It cheats, it fleets, the time of the roses ! 


Tempest and thunder and war were abroad ; 
Riot and turbulence triumphed unawed; 
Suleiman rose, and the thunders were hushed, 
Faction was prostrate, turbulence crushed. 
Once again peace in her gloriousness rallies; 
Once again shine the glad skies on our valleys, 
And sweetly anew the poet composes 
His lays in praise of the time of the roses ! 

I, too, Meseehi, already renowned, 
Centuries hence by my song shall be crowned; 
Far as the stars of the wide heaven shine, 
Men shall rejoice in this carol of mine. 
Lelia ! thou art as a rose unto me: 
Think on the nightingale singing for thee ! 
For he who on love like thine reposes 
Least heeds how speeds the time of the roses. 


Brilliantly sparkle, Meseehi, thy flowing 
Numbers, like streams, amid lilies upgrowing ; 
Yet, wouldst thou mingle the sad and sublime, 
Sing, too, the time, 
Sing the young time ere the roses were blowing ! 

Then was the season when hope was vet glowing, 
Then the blithe year of the spring and the sowing, 

1 From the Persian of Zazem Zerbayeh, %vho died at Ispahan in 1541, 
in reply to Meseehi's Time of the Rosa. 


Then the soul dwelt in her own faery clime ; 

Then was the time, 

Then the gay time ere the roses were blowing. 

Soon, ah, too soon came the summer, bestowing 

Glory and light, but a light ever showing 

In the chill nearness, the autumn's gray rime : 

Gone was the time, 

Gone the fresh time ere the roses were blowing. 

Life is at best but a coming and going, 
Now flitting past us on swift, now on slow wing ; 
Here fair with goodness, there gloomy with crime. 
O for the time, 

for the time ere the roses were blowing ! 

Coldly, ah, coldly goes truth, overthrowing 

Fancy's bright palaces, coldly goes mowing 

Down the sweet blossoms of boyhood's young prime 

Give us the time, 

Give us the time ere the roses were blowing ! 

1 am Zerbayeh, the least of the knowing ; 
Thou art Meseehi, the golden and glowing. 
O when again thou wouldst dazzle in rhyme, 
Sing of the time, 

Sing of the time ere the roses were blowing ! 



Veil not thy mirror, sweet Amine, 
Till night shall also veil each star ! 
Thou seest a twofold marvel there : 
The only face so fair as thine, 
The only eyes that, near or far, 
Can gaze on thine without despair. 


My heart is as a house of groans 

From dusky eve to dawning gray ; 

(Allah, Allah bu /) 

The glazed flesh on my staring bones 

Grows black and blacker with decay ; 

(Allah, Allah hu /) 

Yet am I none whom death may slay : 

I am spared to suffer, and to warn, 

(Allah, Allah hu /) 

My lashless eyes are parched to horn 

With weeping for my sin alway. 

(Allah, Allah bu '} 

For blood, hot blood that no man sees, 

The blood of one I slew, 

Burns on my hands : I cry therefore 

All night long, on my knees, 

Evermore- : 

Allah, Allah hu ! 


Because I slew him over wine, 

Because I struck him down at night, 

(Allah, Allah hu !} 

Because he died and made no sign, 

His blood is always in my sight ! 

(Allah, Allah hu /)" 

Because I raised mine arm to smite 

While the foul cup was at his lips; 

(Allah, Allah hu!} 

Because I wrought his soul's eclipse, 

He comes between me and the light. 

(Allah, Allah hu !) 

His is the form my terror sees, 

The sinner that I slew ; 

My rending cry is still therefore 

All night long, on my knees, 

Evermore : 

Allah, Allah hu ! 

Under the all-just heaven's expanse 

There is for me no resting-spot ; 

(Allah, Allah hu'} 

I dread man's revengeful countenance; 

The smiles of woman win me not : 

(Allah, Allah hu!) 

I wander among graves where rot 

The carcasses of leprous men, 

(Allah, Allah hu!) 

I house me in the dragon's den 

Till evening darkens grove and grot. 

(Allah, Allah hu f) 


But bootless all ! Who penance drees, 
Must dree it his life through. (36) 
My heart-wrung cry is still therefore 
All night long, on my knees, 
Evermore : 
Allah, Allah hu ! 

The silks that swathe my hall divan 

Are damascened with moons of gold ; 

(Allah, Allah hu /) 

Musk-roses from my gulistan 

Fill vases of Egyptian mould ; 

(Allah, Allah hu /) 

The Koran's treasures lie unrolled 

Near where my radiant night-lamp burns ; 

(Allah, Allah hu /) 

Around me, rows of silver urns 

Perfume the air with odors old. 

(Allah, Allah hu !} 

But what avail these luxuries ? 

The blood of him I slew 

Burns red on all ; I cry therefore 

All night long, on my knees, 

Evermore : 

Allah, Allah hu ! 

Can sultans, can the guilty rich, 

Purchase with mines and thrones a draught, 

(Allah, Allah hu /) 

From that Nutulian 1 fount of which 

The conscience-tortured whilom quaffed ? 

(Allah, Allah hu /) 

1 Lethean. 


Vain dream ! Power, glory, riches, craft, 

Prove magnets for the sword of wrath ; 

(Allah, Allah hu!} 

Thorn-plant men's last and lampless path 

And barb the slaying angel's shaft. (37) 

(Allah, Allah hu /) 

Oh, the blood-guilty ever sees 

But sights that make him rue 

As I do now, and cry therefore, 

All night long, on my knees, 

Evermore : 

Allah, Allah hu ! 




The words of the wise and unknown, quoth Zehir, 

are buds in a garden, 
Which flower when summer is come, and are culled 

for the harem by girls ; 
Or drops of water, saith Saadi, which silently brighten 

and harden, 
Till Caliphs themselves exclaim : " They blind me, 

those dazzling pearls ! ' 




I, too, was reared in Djelim's house, and thus his pre- 
cepts run and are : 
When folly sells the wisdom's crown, 'tis idly gained 

and dearly bought ; 
Oh, foremost man of all his race, born under some 

diviner star 
Who, early trained, self-reined, self-chained, can 

practise all that Lokman 1 taught! 
The joys and cares of earth are snares : heed lest thy 

soul too late deplore 
The power of sin to wile and win her vision from 

the Eight and Four. 2 
Lock up thyself within thyself; distrust the stranger, 

and the fair ; 
(The fool is blown from whim to whim by every 

gust of passion's gales.) 
Bide where the lute and song are mute, and as thy 

soul would shun despair, 
Avert thine eye from woman's face when twilight 

falls, and she unveils. 

1 Lokman flourished about a thousand years before the Christian era. He 
is the greatest of the Oriental moralists; even Mohammed speaks of him in 
the Koran with profound reverence. Lokman' s wisdom, like Solomon's, 
is supposed to have been ot divine origin. . . . The maxims of Lokman 
are ten thousand in number ; and any one of them, says an Arabian com- 
mentator, is of much greater value than the whole world. 

- The Eight Signs that are to precede the Day of Doom, and the Four 
Final Things : Death, Judgment, Hell, Heaven. 


Be circumspect, be watchman-like. Put pebbles in 

thy mouth each day : 
Pause long ere thou panegyrize; pause doubly long 

ere thou condemn. 
Thy thoughts are Tartars, vagabonds : imprison all 

thou canst not slay. 
Of many million drops of rain perchance but one 

turns out a gem. 



The world is one vast caravanserai 

Where none may stay, 

But where each guest writes on the wall this word : 

O Mighty Lord! 



Naught, I hear thee say, 
Can fill the greedy eye ; 
Yet a little clay 
Will fill it bye and bye. 


An hour of good, a day of ill : 
This is the lot ot mourning man 
Who leaves the world whene'er he will, 
But goes to Heaven whene'er he can. 



The steed to the man who bestrides it newly, 
The sabre to him who best can wield it, 
The damsel to him who has wooed her truly, 
And the province to him who refuses to yield it. 


Like a cypress tree 

Mateless in a death-black valley, 

Where no lily springeth, 

Where no bulbul singeth, 

Whence gazelle is never seen to sally, 

Such am I, woe is me ! 

Poor, sad, all unknown, 

Lone, lone, lone. 

Like a wandering bee, 

Alien from his hive and fellows, 

Humming moanful ditties 

Far from men and cities, 

Roaming glades the autumn rarely mellows, 

Such am I, woe is me ! 

Poor, sad, all unknown, 

Lone, lone, lone. 

Like a bark at sea, 

All whose crew by night have perished 

Drifting on the ocean, 

Still with shoreward motion, 


Tho' none live by whom hope's throb is cherished, 
Such am I, woe is me ! 
Poor, sad, all unknown, 
Lone, lone, lone. 

So I pine and dree, 

Till the night that knows no morrow 

Sees me wrapped in clay-vest. 

Thou, chill world, that gavest 

Me the bitter boon alone of sorrow, 

Give then a grave to me, 

Dark, sad, all unknown, 

Lone, lone, lone. 


PVom eternity the course of love was writ on leaves 

of snow ; 
Hence it wanders like a vagrant when the winds of 

coldness blow ; 
And the lamp of love is cold and chill where constancy 

is weak, 
And the lily comes to pine upon deserted beauty's cheek. 

From eternity the might of love was writ on leaves of 

fire ; 
Hence the soul of love in spiral flames would mount 

for ever higher. 
And the vermeil sun of Eden won, leaves hope no 

more to seek, 
And the damask rose ascends her throne on happy 

beauty's cheek. 


From eternity the fate of love was writ on leaves of 

For the night of its decay must come, and darkness 

build the tomb; 
Then the waste of life, a garden once, again is black 

and bleak, 
And the raven tresses mourningly o'ershadow beauty's 


Ah, the joys of love are sweet and false, are sorrows 

in disguise, 
Like the cheating wealth of golden eve, ere night 

break up the skies. 
If the graves of earth were opened, O if Hades could 

but speak, 
What a world of ruined souls would curse the sheen 

of beauty's cheek ! 


Trust not the world, nor time ; they are liar-mates. 

(ra Huf) 2 

Wealth borrows wings, and woman goes her way. 

(Yd Hu '} 

Into the old house with the ebon gates 

(Ta Hu'} 

Who enters is but guest, and must not stay. 

(Ta Hu'} 

1 A passage from Hudayi II., a native of Anatolia; he died in 1628, 
and lies buried near Constantinople. 

- The familiar cry nf the dervishes. 


Look not upon the sun, for that shall die, 

(Ta Hu!} 

Love not the roses, for they must decay ; 

(Ta Hu!} 

The child is caught by all that dupes the eye : 

(Ya Hu!} 

The man should gird his loins ; he cannot stay. 

(Ta Hu!} 

From moon to moon time rolleth as a river. 

(Ta Hu!} 

Tho' night will soon o'erdark thy life's last ray, 

(Ta Hu!} 

Earth is the prison of the True Believer ; 

(To Hu!} 

And who in prison stipulates to stay ? 

(Ya Hu!} 

Up, dreamer, up ! What takest life to be ? 

( Ya Hu !} 

Are centuries not made of night and day ? 

( Ya Hu !} 

Call now on God while He will list to thee ! 

(Ya Hu!} 

The caravan moves on : it will not stay. 

(Ya Hu!) 

Remember Him whom heaven and earth adore; 
( Ya Hu /) 

Fast, and deny thyself; u;ive alms, and pray. 
( } 'a Hu ') 


Thy bark drifts hourly toward the phantom shore ; 

(Ta Hu!) 

The sails are up, the vessel cannot stay. 

(Ta Hu!) 

As yet the accursing scroll is incomplete, 

(To Hu!) 

But Scales and Bridge l maintain their dread array. 

(Ya Hu!) 

Now thou art here, now at the judgment-seat, 

(Ya Hu!) 

For death and justice brook no long delay. 

(Ya Hu!) 

Ah, (trust Hudayi !) he alone from birth 

(Ya Hu!) 

Is guided by the Guardian Four 2 alway, 

(Ya Hu!) 

He is alone the friend of God on earth, 

(Ya Hu!) 

Who visits earth, and doth not sigh to stay. 

(Ya Hu!) 

1 "The scales of Judgment, one of which hangs over Paradise, and the 
other over Hell. The Bridge is laid over the midst of Hell, and is finer 
than a hair and sharper than the edge of a sword ; and those who cannot 
pass this bridge fall into Hell." SALE'S Prelim. Disc. 

2 The Guardian Four are the four caliphs next in succession to Mahomet : 
Omar, Ali, Osman, and Abubekhr. 



When the mourner sits at the feast of woe 
The wine is gall, and the lights burn low. 
How bounded my heart in my younger years 
Ere grief had unlocked the fount of my tears ! 
Now dead are the roses of hope in their bloom, 
And those that I loved are dust in the tomb, 
And of all that gave Servi pleasure or pain 
His songs and his sorrows alone remain. 1 


" My darling tiny little girl, 

I'll give thee jewelled shoes and dresses, 

I'll give thee zones of silk and pearl; 

And tell me who has combed thy hair ? 

I'll give thee kisses and caresses. 

And say : what youth has combed thy hair ? " 

"O by my word, O by my truth, 

O by the life of Ali Shah ! 

Aminah knows no stranger youth. 

By all the times that thou hast kissed her, 

Her hair was combed by Zillalah, 

Her own beloved sister ! " 

1 It is a singular coincidence that we find almost the same sentiment in 
Schutze : 

" I'nd mir ist nichts aus jener Zeit geblieben, 
A Is mir dies Lied, rni-in Leiden und incin Lieban." 


11 My own, my whitest girl, I vow 

I'll bring thce sweetmeats sugared newly. 

And tell me, only tell me now 

Who over-darked thine eyes with kohl? 

My white Aminah, tell me truly 

Who over-darked thine eyes with kohl?'' 

" O by my word, O by my soul, 

by the soul of AH Shah ! 

Myself o'er-darked mine eyes with kohl ; 
'Twas given me by my own dear mother, 
My whitest mother Fatimah : 

1 had it from none other." 

" My playful girl, I'll give thee rings, 
And gold, and gems beyond comparing ; 
I'll give thee thousand costly things ! 
And say, who bit those lips of thine ? 
Come, tell what Kuzzilbash so daring 
Hath bitten those red lips of thine." 

" O by my love, O by my life ! 
'Twas by a bright red rose this morn 
Given me by Zaycle, my brother's wife, 
These guiltless lips of mine were bitten. 
(For brightest rose hath sharpest thorn : 
This, as thou knowest, is written.) " 

u Thou crafty girl, I know thine art ! 
Dread thou my wrath : 1 give thee warning. 
But if thou wouldst regain my heart 
Speak : tell me who has torn thy shawl ! 


Say what young Galionjee this morning 
Tore thus in twain thy scarlet shawl ? 

faithless, truthless, worthless jade ! 

1 have tracked thee, then, thro' all thy lying. 
Away ! No jewels, no brocade, 

No sweetmeats shalt thou have of me. 
Away, false girl ! Thy tears and sighing 
Seem worse than even thy lies to be." 


To this khan, and from this khan 

How many pilgrims came and went too ! 

In this khan, and by this khan 

What arts were spent, what hearts were rent too 

To this khan and from this khan 

Which, for penance, man is sent to, 

Many a van and caravan 

Crowded came, and shrouded went too. 

Christian man and Mussulman, 

Guebre, heathen, Jew, and Gentoo, 

To this khan, and from this khan, 

Weeping came, and sleeping went too. 

A riddle this since time began, 

Which many a sage his mind hath bent to : 

All came, all went ; but never man 

Knew whence they came, or where they went to ! 



My eyes are filmed, my beard is gray, 

I am bowed with the weight of years ; 

I would I were stretched in my bed of clay, 

With my long-lost youth's compeers ! 

For back to the past, tho' the thought brings woe, 

My memory ever glides, 

To the old, old time, long, long ago, 

The time of the Barmecides ! 

To the old, old time, long, long ago, 

The time of the Barmecides. 

Then youth was mine, and a fierce wild will, 

And an iron arm in war, 

And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, 

When the watch-lights glimmered afar ; 

And as fiery a barb as any I know 

That Kurd or Bedouin rides, 

Ere my friends lay low, long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

Ere my friends lay low, long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

One golden goblet illumed my board, 

One silver dish was there ; 

At hand my tried Karamanian sword 

Lay always bright and bare ; 

For those were the days when the angry blow 

Supplanted the word that chides, 


When hearts could glow, long, long ago, 
In the time of the Barmecides ; 
When hearts could glow, long, long ago, 
In the time of the Barmecides. 

Thro' city and desert my mates and I 
Were free to rove and roam, 
Our diapered canopy the deep of the sky, 
Or the roof of the palace dome : 

ours was that vivid life to and fro 
Which only sloth derides ! 

Men spent life so, long, long ago, 
In the time of the Barmecides ; 
Men spent life so, long, long ago, 
In the time of the Barmecides. 

1 see rich Bagdad once again, 
With its turrets of Moorish mould, 
And the Caliph's twice five hundred men 
Whose binishes flamed with gold ; 

I call up many a gorgeous show 
Which the pall of oblivion hides : 
All passed like snow, long, long ago, 
With the time of the Barmecides ; 
All passed like snow, long, long ago, 
With the time of the Barmecides. 

But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray, 
And I bend with the weight of years. 
May I soon go down to the house of clay 
Where slumber my youth's compeers ! 


For with them and the past, tho' the thought wakes 


My memory ever abides ; 
And I mourn for the times gone long ago, 
For the times of the Barmecides ! 
I mourn for the times gone long ago, 
For the times of the Barmecides ! 

Original Poems 
II. Pro Patria 


O Ireland, ancient Ireland ! 
Ancient, yet for ever young, 
Thou our mother, home and sireland, 
Thou at length hast found a tongue. 
Proudly thou, at length, 
Resistest in triumphant strength ; 
Thy flag of freedom floats unfurled; 
And as that mighty God existeth, 
Who giveth victory when and where He listeth, 
Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nations of the 
world ! 

For this dull world still slumbers, 

Witless of its wants or loves, 

Though, like Galileo, numbers 

Cry aloud " It moves ! it moves ! " 

In a midnight dream, 

Drifts it down time's wreckful stream. 

All march, but few descry the goal. 

O Ireland ! be it thy high duty 

To teach the world the might of moral beauty, 

And stamp God's image truly on the struggling soul. 

Strong in thy self-reliance, 
Not in idle threat or boast, 



Hast thou hurled thy fierce defiance 

At the haughty Saxon host ; 

Thou hast claimed, in sight 

Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right. 

Upon thy hills, along thy plains, 

In the green bosom of thy valleys, 

The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies, 

And calls on thee to trample down in dust thy chains ! 

Deep, saith the eastern story, 

Burns in Iran's mines a gem, 

For its dazzling hues and glory 

Worth a Sultan's diadem. 

But from human eyes 

Hidden there it ever lies ! 

The aye-travailing gnomes alone, 

Who toil to form the mountain's treasure, 

May gaze and gloat, with pleasure without measure, 

Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder-stone. 

So is it with a nation 
Which would win for richest dower 
That bright pearl, self-liberation : 
It must labor hour by hour. 
Strangers, who travail 
To lay bare the gem, shall fail ; 
Within itself, must grow, must glow, 
Within the depths of its own bosom 
Must flower in living might, must broadly blossom 
The hopes that shall be born ere freedom's tree can 


Go on, then, all rejoiceful ! 

March on thy career, unbowed ! 

Ireland ! let thy noble voiceful 

Spirit cry to God aloud ! 

Man will bid thee speed, 

God will aid thee in thy need ; 

The time, the hour, the power are near : 

Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard 

Of that illustrious band, whom Heaven and man 

guard : 
And these words come from one whom some have 

called a seer. 


Friends to freedom ! is't not time 
That your course were shaped at length ? 
Wherefore stand ye loitering here ? 
Seek some healthier, holier clime, 
Where your souls may grow in strength, 
And whence love hath exiled fear ! 

Europe, Southron, Saxon, Celt, 

Sits alone, in tattered robe. 

In our day she burns with none 

Of the lightning-life she felt, 

When Rome shook the troubled globe, 

Twenty centuries agone. 

Dcutschland sleeps : her star hath waned. 
France, the thundress whilom, now 


Singeth small, with bated breath. 
Spain is bleeding, Poland chained ; 
Italy can but groan and vow ; 
England lieth sick to death. 1 

Cross with me the Atlantic's foam, 
And your genuine goal is won ! 
Purely freedom's breezes blow, 
Merrily freedom's children roam, 
By the dsdal Amazon, 
And the glorious Ohio ! 

Thither take not gems and gold : 
Naught from Europe's robber-hoards 
Must profane the western zones. 
Thither take ye spirits bold, 
Thither take ye ploughs and swords, 
And your fathers' buried bones ! 

Come ! if liberty's true fires 
Burn within your bosoms, come ! 
If ye would that in your graves 
Your free sons should bless their sires, 
Make the far green west your home ; 
Cross with me the Atlantic waves ! 

1 " England leidt-t von einer todtlichen Krankheit, ohne Hoffnung 
wie ohne Heilung." England labors under a deadly sickness without 
hope and without remedy. NIEBUHR. 



Arise, my slumbering soul, arise! 

And learn what yet remains for thee 

To dree or do ! 

The signs are flaming in the skies; 

A struggling world would yet be free, 

And live anew. 

The earthquake hath not yet been born 

That soon shall rock the lands around, 

Beneath their base. 

Immortal freedom's thunder-horn, 

As yet, yields but a doleful sound 

To Europe's race. 

Look round, my soul, and see and say 

If those about thee understand 

Their mission here; 

The will to smite, the power to slay, 

Abound in every heart and hand, 

Afar, anear. 

Hut, (iod ! must yet the conqueror's sword 

Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year? 

O dream it not ! 

It sounds a false blaspheming word, 

Begot and born of moral fear, 

And ill-begot ! 

To leave the world a name is naught; 


I o leave a name for glorious deeds 


And works of love, 

A name to waken lightning thought, 

And fire the soul of him who reads, 

This tells above. 

Napoleon sinks to-day before 

The ungilded shrine, the single soul 

Of Washington ; 

Truth's name, alone, shall man adore, 

Long as the waves of time shall roll 

Henceforward on ! 

My countrymen ! my words are weak, 

My health is gone, my soul is dark, 

My heart is chill; 

Yet would I fain and fondly seek 

To see you borne in freedom's bark 

O'er ocean still. 

Beseech your God, and bide your hour: 

He cannot, will not, long be dumb; 

Even now His tread 

Is heard o'er earth with coming power; 

And coming, trust me, it will come, 

Else were He dead ! 


" My suffering country shall be freed, 
And shine with tenfold glory ! " 
So spake the gallant Winkelricd 
Renowned in German story. 


" No tyrant, though of kingly grade, 
Shall cross or darken my way ! " 
Out flashed his blade; and so he made 
For freedom's course a highway. 

We want a man like this, with power 
To rouse the world by one word; 
We want a chief to meet the hour, 
To march the masses sunward. 
But chief or none, thro' blood and fire 
My fatherland lies thy way ! 
The men must fight who dare desire 
For freedom's course a highway. 

Alas, I can but idly gaze 

Around, in grief and wonder; 

The people's will alone can raise 

The people's shout of thunder. 

Too long, O friends ! you faint for fear 

In secret crypt and byway; 

At last, be men ! Stand forth, and clear 

For freedom's course a highway. 

You intersect wood, lea, and lawn 
With roads for monster wagons, 
Wherein you speed like lightning, drawn 
By hcrv iron dragons. 
So do: such work is good, no doubt. 
But why not seek some high way 
For Mind, as well ? Path also out 
For freedom's course a highway ! 


Yes, up ! and let your weapons be 
Sharp steel, and self-reliance. 
Why waste a burning energy 
In void and vain defiance, 
And phrases fierce and fugitive ? 
'Tis deeds, not words, that I weigh: 
Your swords, your guns, alone can give 
To freedom's course a highway ! 


Awake, arise, shake off" thy dreams ! 
Thou art not what thou wert of yore. 
Of all those rich, those dazzling beams 
That once illumed thine aspect o'er, 
Show me a solitary one 
Whose glory is not quenched and done. 

The harp remaineth where it fell, 
With mouldering frame and broken chord 
Around the song there hangs no spell, 
No laurel wreath entwines the sword; 
And startlingly the footstep falls 
Along thy dim and dreary halls. 

When other men in future years 
In wonder ask how this could be, 
Then answer only by thy tears 
That ruin fell on thine and thee, 


Because thyself wouldst have it so, 
Because thou welcomedst the blow 

To stamp dishonor on thy brow 
Was not within the power of earth. 
And art thou agonized, when now 
The hour that lost thee all thy worth, 
And turned thee to the thing thou art, 
Rushes upon thy bleeding heart ? 

Weep, weep, degraded one : the deed, 
The desperate deed, was all thine own ; 
Thou madest more than maniac speed 
To hurl thine honors from their throne. 
Thine honors fell; and when they fell, 
The nations rang thy funeral knell. 

Well may thy sons be seared in soul, 
Their groans be deep by night and day ! 
Till day and night forget to roll, 
Their noblest hopes shall morn decay ; 
Their freshest flowers shall die by blight ; 
Their brightest sun shall set ere night. 

The stranger, as he treads thy sod 
And views thy universal wreck, 
May execrate the foot that trod 
Triumphant on a prostrate neck; 
But what is that to thee ? Thy woes 
May hope in vain tor pause or close. 


Awake, arise, shake oft thy dreams ! 

'Tis idle all to talk of power 

And fame and glory ; these are themes 

Befitting ill so dark an hour. 

Till miracles are wrought for thee, 

No fame nor glory shalt thou see. 

Thou art forsaken of the earth, 
Which makes a byword of thy name. 
Nations, and thrones, and powers whose birth 
As yet is not, shall rise to fame, 
Shall flourish, and may fall : but thou 
Shalt linger, as thou lingerest now. 

And till all earthly power shall wane, 
And time's gray pillar, groaning, fall, 
Thus shall it be ! and still in vain 
Thou shalt essay to burst the thrall 
Which binds, in fetters forged by fate, 
The wreck and ruin of what once was great. 


Pure Spirit of the alway-faithful God, 

Kindler of Heaven's true light within the soul! 

Erom the lorn land our sainted fathers trod, 

Ascends to Thee our cry of hope and dole. 

Thee, Thee we praise; 

To Thee we raise 

Our choral hymn in these awakening days: 


O send us down anew that fire 

Which of old lived in David's and Isaiah's lyre. 

Centuries had rolled, and earth lay tombed in sleep, 

The nightmare-sleep of nations beneath kings; 

And far abroad o'er liberty's great deep 

Death's angel waved his black and stilling wings. 

Then struck Thine hour! 

Thou, in Thy power, 

But breathedst, and the free stood up, a tower ; 

And tyranny's thrones and strongholds fell, 

And men made jubilee for an abolished hell. 

And she, our mother-home, the famed, the fair, 

The golden house of light and intellect, 

Must she still groan in her intense despair? 

Shall she lie prone while Europe stands erect ? 

Forfend this, Thou 

To whom we vow 

Souls even our giant wrongs shall never bow: 

Thou wilt not leave our green flag furled, 

Nor bear that we abide the byword of the world. 

Like the last lamp that burned in Tullia's tomb 

Through ages, vainly, with unwaning ray, 

Our star of hope lights but a path of gloom 

Whose false track leads us round and round alway. 

Hut thou canst ope 

A gate from hope 

To victory ! Thou canst nerve our arms to cope 

With looming storm and damper still, 

And lend a thunder-voice to the land's lightning-will. 


Descend then, Spirit of the Eternal King! 

To thee, to Him, to His avenging Son, 

The Triune God, in boundless trust we cling: 

His help once ours, our nationhood is won. 

We watch the time 

Till that sublime 

Event shall thrill the free of every clime. 

Speed, mighty Spirit ! speed its march, 

And thus complete for earth mankind's triumphal arch. 

Original Poems 
III. Those on Miscellaneous Subjects 


The heralds of thy ruin and despair 

Thickened and quickened as thy time drew nigh : 

What prodigies of sound convulsed the air! 

How many a death-flag was unfurled on high ! 

The sullen sun went down, a globe of blood, 

Rayless, and coloring every heart with gloom, 

Till even the dullest felt and understood 

The coming of an overwhelming doom, 

The presage of a destiny and fall, 

A shock, a thunder-shock, for thee, for them, for all. 

The sullen sun went down, a globe of blood 
Rayless, and coloring every soul with gloom; 
And men's imagination, prone to brood 
Over the worst, and summon from the womb 
Of unborn time the evil and the dark, 
Launched forth in fear upon that shoreless ocean 
Whose whirlpool billows but engulf the barque. 
Conjectural dread, and each fresh-felt emotion, 
Like spectral figures on a magic mirror, 
Seemed wilder than the last, and stronglicr stung with 

We shrink within ourselves when night and storm 
Are darkly mustering; for to every soul 
Heaven here foreshadows character and form 
Of Nature's death-hour. Doth the thunder roll. 



The wild wave boil, the lightning stream or strike, 

Flood, fire, and earthquake devastate, in vain ? 

Or is there not a voice which peals alike 

To all 3 from these, conjuring up that train 

Of scenes and images that shall be born 

In living naked might upon the Judgment Morn ? 

If thus we cower to tempest and to night, 
How feltest thou when first the red bolt broke, 
That seventeen suffocating centuries might 
Enshroud thine ashes in time's midnight cloak ? 


Where wert thou in that moment ? Was thy power 
All a funereal phantom ? thy renown 
An echo? thine the triumph of an hour? 
Enough! I rave: when empires, worlds, go down 
Time's wave to dissolution, when they bow 
To fate, let none ask ivhere, but simply what wert 

The desolated cities which of yore 

Perished by flooding fire and sulphury rain, 

Where sleeps the Dead Sea's immemorial shore, 

Lie, blasted wrecks, below that mortar plain. (43) 

They fell, thou fellest ! Hut, renounced of earth, 

Blotted from being for eternal years, 

Their image chills the life-blood : thine gives birth 

Even while we shudder, to some human tears. 

Hadst thou less guilt? Who knows? The book of 

Bears, on each leaf alike, the broad red stamp of 




the rain, the weary, dreary rain, 
How it plashes on the window-sill ! 
Night, I guess too, must be on the wane, 
Strass and Gass 1 around are grown so still. 
Here I sit, with coffee in my cup : 

Ah ! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow 
In the tavern where I loved to sup 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

Twenty years ago, alas ! (But stay : 
On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock ! 
After all, the hours do slip away. 
Come, here goes to burn another block. 
For the night, or morn, is wet and cold, 
And my fire is dwindling rather low : 

1 had fire enough, when young and bold, 
Twenty golden years ago.) 

Dear ! I don't feel well at all, somehow : 
Few in Weimar dream how bad I am. 
Floods of tears grow common with me now, 
High Dutch floods, that reason cannot dam. 
Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive 
If I mope at home so ; I don't know ! 
Am I living now ? I was alive 
Twenty golden years ago. 

1 Street anil lane. 


Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone, 
Not quite bookless, tho', unless I choose ; 
Left with naught to do, except to groan, 
Not a soul to woo, except the muse ; 
O but this is hard for me to bear, 
Me, who whilom lived so much en haut, 
Me, who broke all hearts like chinaware, 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

Perhaps 'tis better time's defacing waves 
Long have quenched the radiance of my brow j 
They who curse me nightly from their graves, 
Scarce could love me were they living now. 
But my loneliness hath darker ills : 
Such dun duns as Conscience, Thought and Co., 
Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailor's bills 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

Did I paint a fifth of what I feel, 

how plaintive you would ween I was ! 
But I won't, albeit I have a deal 

More to wail about than Kerner has ! 
Kerner's tears are wept for withered flowers, 
Mine for withered hopes; my scroll of woe 
Dates, alas, from youth's deserted bowers, 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

Yet, may Deutschland bardlings flourish long ! 
Me, I tweak no beak among them ; hawks 
Must not pounce on hawks : besides, in song 

1 could once beat all ot them by chalks. 


Though you find me, as I near my goal, 
Sentimentalizing like Rousseau, 
Ah, I had a grand Byronian soul 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

Tick-tick, tick-tick ! Not a sound save time's, 
And the wind-gust as it drives the rain. 
Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes, 
Go to bed, and rest thine aching brain ! 
Sleep ! no more the dupe of hopes or schemes. 
Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow : 
Curious anticlimax to thy dreams 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

TO LAURA (45) 

The charm that gilded life is over ! 

I live to feel I live in vain, 

And worlds were worthless to recover 

That dazzling dream of mine again. 

The idol I adored is broken, 

And I may weep its overthrow ; 

Thy lips at length my doom have spoken, 

And nothing now remains but woe. 

And is it, indeed, we sever, 

And hast thou, then, forgotten all ? 

And canst thou cast me off for ever, 

To mourn, a dark and hopeless thrall ? 

O perfidy ! In friend or foe, 

In stranger, lover, husband, wife, 


Thou art the blackest drop of woe 
That bubbles in the cup of life. 

But most of all in woman's breast 
Triumphant in thy blasting power, 
Thou reignest like a demon-guest 
Enthroned in some celestial bower. 
Oh, cold and cruel she, who while 
She lavishes all wiles to win 
Her lover o'er, can smile and smile, 
Yet be all dark and false within. 

Who, when his glances on another 
Too idly and too long have dwelt, 
Will sigh as if she sought to smother 
The grief her bosom never felt ; 
Who, versed in every witching art 
That e'er the warmest love would dare, 
First having gained her victim's heart, 
Then turns him over to despair! 

Alas, and can such treachery be ? 
The worm that winds in slime along, 
Is nobler, better far than she 
Who revels in that heartless wrong ! 
Go now, and triumph in thy guilt, 
And weave thy wanton spells anew; 
Go, false as fair, and, if thou wilt, 
Again betray the fond and true. 

Yet this, my last and long farewell, 
Is less in anyxT than in sorrow ; 


Mine is the tale which myriads tell 
Who loathe to-day, and dread to-morrow. 
Me, Frances ! me thou never knewest, 
Nor sawest, that if my speech was cold, 
The love is deepest oft, and truest 
That burns within the breast untold. 

My soul was formed for love and grief; 
These both were blended at my birth ; 
But lifeless as a shrivelled leaf, 
Lie now my dearest hopes in earth. 
I sigh, when none my sighs return ; 
I love, but am not loved again : 
Till life be past this heart must burn, 
With none to soothe or share its pain 

Farewell ! In life's gay giddy whirl 
Soon wilt thou have forgotten me ; 
But where, O most dissembling girl ! 
Where shall I from thine image flee? 
Farewell ! for thee the heavens are bright, 
And flowers along thy pathway lie ; 
The bolts that strike, the winds that blight 
Will pass thy bower of beauty by. 

But when shall I find rest ? Alas, 
Soon as the winter winds shall rave 
At midnight, thro 1 the long dark grass 
Above mine un re mem be red grave. 



Bird that discoursest from yon poplar bough, 
Outweeping night, and in thy eloquent tears 
Holding sweet converse with the thousand spheres 
That glow and glisten from night's glorious brow, 

may thy lot be mine ! that, lonely now, 

And doomed to mourn the remnant of my years, 
My song may swell to more than mortal ears, 
And sweet as is thy strain be poured my vow. 

Bird of the poets' paradise ! by thee 

Taught where the tides of feeling deepest tremble, 

Playful in gloom, like some sequestered sea, 

1 too amidst my anguish would dissemble, 
And tune misfortune to such melody, 

That my despair thy transports should resemble. 


Curtain the lamp, and bury the bowl, 

The ban is on drinking; 

Reason shall reign the queen of the soul 

When the spirits are sinking. 

Chained lies the demon that smote with blight 

Men's morals and laurels, 

Then hail to health, and a long good night 

To old wine, and new quarrels ! 

Nights shall descend, and no taverns ring 
To the roar of our revels ; 


Mornings shall dawn but none of them bring 

White lips and blue devils. 

Riot and frenzy sleep with remorse 

In the obsolete potion, 

And mind grows calm as a ship on her course 

O'er the level of ocean. 

So should it be ! for man's world of romance 

Is fast disappearing, 

And shadows of changes are seen in advance, 

Whose epochs are nearing. 

And the days are at hand, when the best shall require 

All means of salvation. 

And the souls of men shall be tried in the fire 

Of the final probation ! 

And the witling no longer or sneers or smiles, 

And the worldling dissembles, 

And the black-hearted sceptic feels anxious at whiles, 

And marvels and trembles ; 

And fear and defiance are blent in the jest 

Of the blind self-deceiver; 

But hope bounds high in the joyous breast 

Of the childlike believer ! 

Darken the lamp then, and shatter the bowl, 

Ye faithfullesf-hearted ! 

And as your swift years travel on to the goal 

Whither worlds have departed, 

Spend labor, life, soul, in your zeal to atone 

For the past and its errors : 

So best shall you bear to encounter alone 

The Event ! and its terrors. 



Speak no more of life ! 

What can life bestow 

In this amphitheatre of strife 

All times dark with tragedy and woe ? 

Know'st thou not how care and pain 

Build their lampless dwelling in the brain, 

Even as the stern intrusion 

Of our teachers, time and truth, 

Turn to gloom the bright illusions 

Rainbowed on the soul of youth ? 

Could I live to find that this is so ? 

Oh ! no, no. 

As the stream of time 

Sluggishly doth flow, 

Look, how all of beaming or sublime 

Sinks into the black abysm below ! 

Yea, the loftiest intellect 

Earliest on the strand of life is wrecked. 

Naught of lovely, nothing glorious, 

Lives to triumph o'er decay; 

Desolation reigns victorious : 


Mind is dungeon-walled by clay : 
Could I bear to feel mine own laid low ? 
Oh ! no, no. 

Restless o'er the earth, 

Thronging millions go : 

But behold how genius, love, and worth, 

Move like lonely phantoms to and fro. 


Suns are quenched, and kingdoms fall, 
But the doom of these outdarkens all ! 
Die they then ? Yes, love's devotion, 
Stricken, withers in its bloom ; 
Fond affections, deep as ocean, 
In their cradle find their tomb : 
Shall I linger, then, to count each throe ? 
Oh ! no, no. 

Prison-bursting death ! 

Welcome be thy blow ! 

Thine is but the forfeit of my breath, 

Not the spirit, nor the spirit's glow. 

Spheres of beauty, hallowed spheres 

Undefaced by time, undimmed by tears, 

Henceforth hail ! Oh, who would grovel 

In a world impure as this, 

Who would weep in cell or hovel, 

When a palace might be his ? 

Wouldst thou have me that bright lot forego ? 

Oh ! no, no. 


Friend and brother, and yet more than brother, 
Thou endowed with all of Shelley's soul ! 
Thou whose heart so burneth for thy Mother, 
That, like his, it may defy all other 
Flames, while time shall roll ! 


Thou of language bland, and manner meekest, 
Gentle bearing, yet unswerving will ! 
Gladly, gladly, list I when thou speakest : 
Honored highly is the man thou seekest 
To redeem from ill ! 

Truly showest thou me the one thing needful ! 
Thou art not, nor is the world, yet blind. 
Truly have I been long years unheedful 
Of the thorns and tares that choked the weedful 
Garden of my mind ! 

Thorns and tares which rose in rank profusion 
Round my scanty fruitage and my flowers, 
Till I almost deemed it self-delusion, 
To attempt or glance at their extrusion 
From their midnight bowers. 

Dream and waking life have now been blended 
Long time in the caverns of my soul ; 
Oft in daylight have my steps descended 
Down to that dusk realm where all is ended, 
Save remeadless dole ! 

Oft, with tears, I have groaned to God for pity, 
Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim ; 
Oft sung unto Him a prayerful ditty, 
Oft, all lonely in this throngful city, 
Raised my soul to Him ! 

And from path to path His mercy tracked me : 
From a many a peril snatched He me ; 


When false friends pursued, betrayed, attacked me, 
When gloom overdarked, and sickness racked me, 
He was by to save and free ! 

Friend ! thou warnest me in truly noble 
Thoughts and phrases: I will heed thee well. 
Well will I obey thy mystic double 
Counsel, through all scenes of woe and trouble, 
As a magic spell ! 

Yes ! to live a bard, in thought and feeling : 
Yes ! to act my rhyme, by self-restraint, 
This is truth's, is reason's deep revealing 
Unto me from thee, as God's to a kneeling 
And entranced saint ! 

Fare thee well ! We now know each the other ; 
Each has struck the other's inmost chords ; 
Fare thee well, my friend and more than brother : 
And may scorn pursue me, if I smother 
In my soul thy words ! 


I stood aloof: I dared not to behold 
Thy relics covered over with the mould ; 
I shed no tear, I uttered not a groan, 
But Oh, I felt heartbroken and alone. 


How feel I now ? The bitterness of grief 
Has passed, for all that is intense is brief. 
A softer sadness overshades my mind, 
But there thine image ever lies enshrined. 

And if I mourn, (for this is human, too,) 
I mourn no longer that thy days were few, 
Nor that thou hast escaped the tears and woe, 
And deaths on deaths the living undergo. 

Thou fadedst in the springtime of thy years : 
Life's juggling joys and spirit-wasting fears 
Thou knewest but in romance : and to thine eyes 
Man shone a god, the earth a paradise. 

Thou diedst ere the icy breath of scorn 
Froze the warm feelings of thy girlhood's morn, 
Ere thou couldst learn that man is but a slave, 
And this bleak world a prison and a grave. 

Thy spirit is at peace : peace ! blessed word 
Forgotten by the million, or unheard. 
But mine still struggles down this vale of death, 
And courts the favor of a little breath. 

Thro' every stage of life's consuming fever 
The soul too often is her own deceiver, 
And revels, even in a world like this, 
In golden visions of unbounded bliss. 

But he who, looking on the naked chart 
Of life, feels nature sinking at his heart, 


He who is drugged with sorrow, he for whom 
Affliction carves a pathway to the tomb, 

He will unite with me to bless that Power 
Who gathers and transplants the fragile flower 
Ere yet the spirit of the whirlwind storm 
Comes forth in wrath to prostrate and deform. 

And if it be that God Himself removes 
From peril and contagion those He loves, 
Weep such no more; but strew with freshest roses 
The hallowed mound where innocence reposes. 


The solemn Shadow that bears in his hands 

The conquering scythe, and the glass of sands, 

Paused once on his flight where the sunrise shone 

On a warlike city's towers of stone ; 

And he asked of a panoplied soldier near: 

" How long has this fortressed city been here ? " 

And the man looked up, man's pride on his brow : 

" The city stands here from the ages of old ; 

And as it was then, and as it is now, 

So will it endure till the funeral knell 

Of the world be knolled, 

As eternity's annals shall tell." 

And after a thousand years were o'er, 

The Shadow paused over the spot once more. 


And vestige was none of a city there, 

But lakes lay blue, and plains lay bare, 

And the marshalled corn stood high and pale, 

And a shepherd piped of love in a vale. 

" How," spake the Shadow, " can temple and tower 

Thus fleet like mist from the morning hour ? " 

But the shepherd shook the long locks from his brow : 

" The world is filled with sheep and corn ! 

Thus was it of old, thus is it now: 

Thus, too, will it be while moon and sun 

Rule night and morn, 

For Nature and life are one." 

And after a thousand years were o'er, 

The Shadow paused over the spot once more. 

And lo ! in the room of the meadow-lands 

A sea foamed far over saffron sands, 

And flashed in the noontide, bright and dark ; 

And a fisher was casting his nets from a barque. 

How marvelled the Shadow ! "Where, then, is the 

plain ? 

And where be the acres of golden grain ? " 
But the hsher dashed off the salt spray from his brow: 
"These waters begirdle the earth alway ; 
The sea ever rolled, as it rolleth now. 
What babblest thou about grain and fields ? 
By night, by day, 
Man looks for what ocean yields." 

And after a thousand years were o'er, 

The Shadow paused over the spot once more. 


And the ruddy rays of the eventide 
Were gilding the skirts of a forest wide; 
The moss of the trees looked old, so old ! 
And, valley and hill, the ancient mould 
Was robed in sward, an evergreen cloak : 
And a woodman sang as he felled an oak. 
Him asked the Shadow: "Rememberest thou 
Any trace of a sea where wave those trees ? " 
But the woodman laughed. Said he : "I trow 
If oak and pine do flourish and fall, 
It is not amid seas ! 
The earth is one forest all." 

And after a thousand years were o'er, 

The Shadow paused over the spot once more. 

And what saw the Shadow ? A city again ; 

But peopled by pale mechanical men, 

With workhouses filled, and prisons, and marts, 

And faces that spake exanimate hearts : 

Strange picture, and sad ! was the Shadow's thought; 

And turning to one of the ghastly, he sought 

For a clue in words to the when and the how 

Of the ominous change he now beheld. 

But the man uplifted his careworn brow : 

" Change ? What was life ever but conflict and 

change ? 

From the ages of eld, 
Hath affliction been widening her range." 

" Enough ! " said the Shadow, and passed from the spot : 
" At last it is vanished, the beautiful youth 


Of the earth, to return with to-morrow ; 
All changes have checkered mortality's lot, 
But this is the darkest ; for knowledge and truth 
Are but golden gates to the temple of sorrow." 


Spirit of wordless love, that in the lone 

Bowers of the poet's musing soul doth weave 

Tissues of thought hued like the skies at eve 

Ere the last glories of the sun are flown ! 

How soon, almost before our hearts have known 

The change, above the ruins of thy throne 

Whose vanished beauty we would fain retrieve 

With all earth's thrones beside, we stand and grieve, 

But weep not : for the world's chill breath has bound 

In chains of ice the fountains of our tears, 

And ever-mourning memory thenceforth rears 

Her altars upon desecrated ground, 

And always, with a low despondful sound, 

Tolls the disastrous bell of all our years. 


Time rolleth on ; and with our years 
Our sorrows grow and multiply, 
Our visions fade ; 
With late remorse and withering fears, 


We look for light to days gone by : 

But all is shade. 

Our dear fond friends have long been gone, 

No moon is up in heaven above; 

The chill winds blow. 

The dolorous night of age comes on : 

The current of our life and love 

Moves low, moves slow. 

Yet earth hath still a twofold dower : 

On desert sands the palm-trees rise 

In greenest bloom ; 

The dawn breaks at the darkest hour; 

Stars brightliest shine when midnight skies 

Are palled in gloom ; 

The deep hath treasures unrevealed 

Of gold and gems and argosies 

And gallant ships ; 

The sword strikes hurtless on the shield ; 

And from the once plague-laden breeze 

Health greets thy lips ! 

Thou, therefore, man, shalt never droop, 

Shalt never doubt, shalt always trust 

The power of God : 

Thou art not heaven's or nature's dupe ! 

This fleshly hull shall rot in dust, 

A trodden clod. 

But wilt thou cower, tho' death draw nigh J 

The mouldering frame, the eternal soul, 

Which, say, is best ? 

Thou canst not live unless thou die, 


Thou must march far to reach thy goal 
Of endless rest. 

Bear up, even tho' thou be like me 

Stretched on a couch of torturing pain 

This weary day ; 

Tho' heaven and earth seem dark to thee, 

And thine eye glance around in vain 

For one hope-ray ! 

Tho' overborne by wrong and ill, 

Tho' thou hast drained even to the lees 

Life's bitter cup, 

Though death and hell be round thee, still 

Place faith in God : He hears, He sees. 

Bear up ! Bear up ! 


Have I not called thee angel-like and fair? 

What wouldst thou more ? 'Twcrc perilous to gaze 

Long on those dark-bright eyes, whose flashing rays 

Fill with a soft and fond, yet proud, despair 

The bosoms of the shrouded few, who share 

Their locked-up thoughts with none. Thou hast 

their praise ; 

But Beauty hears not their adoring lays 
Which tremble when but whispered to the air. 
Yet think not, altho' stamped as one of those, 


Ah, think not thou this heart hath never burned 
With passion deeply felt and ill-returned. 
If ice-cold now, its pulse no longer glows, 
The memory of unuttered love and woes 
Lies there, alas, too faithfully inurned. 


For once I dreamed that mutual love was more 

Than a bright phantom thought ; and when mankind 

Mocked mine illusion, then would I deplore 

That ignorance, and deem them cold and blind ; 

And years rolled on, and still did I adore 

The unreal image loftily enshrined 

In the recesses of mine own sick mind. 

Enough : the spell is broke, the dream is o'er, 

The enchantment is dissolved ; the world appears 

The thing it is, a theatre, a mart. 

Genius illumines, and the wand of art 

Renews the wonder of our childish years ; 

Power awes, wealth shines, wit sparkles ; but the 

The heart is lost, for love no more endears. 


Not yet trodden-under wholly, 

Not yet darkened, 

O my spirit's flickering lamp ! art thou 

Still, alas, thou wanest, tho' but slowlv, 


And I feel as if my heart had hearkened 
To the whispers of despondence now. 

Yet the world shall not enthrall me. 
Never, never ! 

On my briary pathway to the grave 
Shapes of pain and peril may appal me, 
Agony and ruin may befall me, 
Darkness and dismay may hover ever; 
But, cold world, I will not die thy slave. 

Underneath my feet I trample 

You, ye juggles : 

Pleasure, passion, thirst of power and gold. 

Shall I, dare I, shame the bright example 

Beaming, burning, in the deeds and struggles 

Of the consecrated few of old ? 

Sacred flame which art eternal, 
O bright essence, 

Thou, enthusiasm ! forsake me not. 
Ah, tho' life be reft of all her vernal 
Beauty, ever let thy magic presence 
Shed its glory round my clouded lot. 


Glorious birth of mind and color! 
Gazing on thy radiant face, 
The most lorn of Adam's race 
Might forget all dolor! 


What divinest light is beaming 
Over mountain, mead, and grove! 
That blue noontide sky above, 
Seems asleep and dreaming. 

Rich Italia's wild-birds warble 
In the foliage of those trees : 
I can trace thee, Veronese, 
In these rocks of marble ! 

Yet, no! Mark I not where quiver 
The sun's rays on yonder stream ? 
Only a Poussin could dream 
Such a sun and river. 

What bold imaging! Stony valley, 
And fair bower of eglantine ; 
Here I see the black ravine, 
There the lilied alley. 

This is some rare climate olden, 
Peopled, not by men, but fays; 
Some lone land of genii days, 
Storyful and golden ! 

() for magic power to wander 
One bright year through such a land ' 
Might I even one hour stand 
On the blest hills yonder! 

But what spy I? ... Here by noonlight 
'Tis the same ! the pillar-tower 
I have oft passed thrice an hour, 
Twilight, sunlight, moonlight. 


Shame to me, my own, my sireland, 
Not to know thy soil and skies ! 
Shame, that through Maclise's eyes 
I first see thee, Ireland ! 

Nay, no land doth rank above thee 
Or for loveliness or worth : 
So shall I, from this day forth, 
Ever sing and love thee. 


Beware of blindly trusting 

To outward art, 

And specious sheen ; 

For vice is oft encrusting 

The hollow heart 

Within, unseen. 

See that black pool below thee ! 

There heaven sleeps 

In golden fire. 

Yet whatsoe'er it show thee, 

The mirror's deeps 

Are slime and mire. 


In Siberia's wastes 
The ice-wind's breath 
Woundcth like the toothed steel : 


Lost Siberia doth reveal 
Only blight and death. 

Blight and death alone. 

No summer shines; 

Night is interblent with day ; 

In Siberia's wastes, alway 

The blood blackens, the heart pines. 

In Siberia's wastes 

No tears are shed, 

For they freeze within the brain : 

Naught is felt but dullest pain, 

Pain acute, yet dead ; 

Pain as in a dream, 
When years go by 
Funeral-paced, yet fugitive ; 
When man lives and doth not live, 
Doth not live, nor die. 

In Siberia's wastes 

Are sands and rocks. 

Nothing blooms of green or soft, 

But the snow-peaks rise aloft, 

And the gaunt ice-blocks. 

And the exile there 

Is one with those ; 

They arc part, and he is part ! 

For the sands are in his he-art, 

And the killing snows. 


Therefore, in those wastes 
None curse the Czar. 
Each man's tongue is cloven by 
The north blast, that heweth nigh 
With sharp scimitar. 

And such doom each drees, 
Till, hunger-gnawn, 
Cold-slain, he at length sinks there 
Yet scarce more a corpse than ere 
His last breath was drawn. 


("Et moi, j'ai etc aussi en Arcadie." And I, I, too, have been a 
dreamer. Inscription on a Painting by Poussin. ) 

I walked entranced 

Through a land of morn ; 

The sun, with wondrous excess of light, 

Shone down and glanced 

Over seas of corn 

And lustrous gardens aleft and right. 

Even in the clime 

Of resplendent Spain, 

Beams no such sun upon such a land ; 

But it was the time, 

'Twas in the reign, 

Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 1 

1 The Irish and Oriental poets agree- in attributing favorable or unfavor- 
able weather, and abundant or deficient harvests, to the good or bad qualities 
of the reigning monarch. M>ir mean? great. 


Anon stood nigh 

By my side a man 

Of princely aspect and port sublime. 

Him queried I, 

" O my Lord and Khan ! l 

What clime is this, and what golden time ? " 

When he: "The clime 

Is a clime to praise, 

The clime is Erin's, the green and bland ; 

And it is the time, 

These be the days, 

Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand ! " 

Then saw I thrones, 

And circling fires, 

And a dome rose near me, as by a spell, 

Whence flowed the tones 

Of silver lyres, 

And many voices in wreathed swell ; 

And their thrilling chime 

Fell on mine ears 

As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band : 

" It is now the time, 

These be the years, 

Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand ! " 

I sought the hall, 

And behold ! a change 

From light to darkness, from joy to woe. 

Kings, nobles, all, 

1 Ccar.n, the Gaelic title for a chief. 


Looked aghast and strange ; 

The minstrel group sat in dumbest show. 

Had some great crime 

Wrought this dread amaze, 

This terror? . . . None seemed to understand. 

'Twas then the time, 

We were in the days, 

Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 

I again walked forth ; 

But lo, the sky 

Showed flecked with blood, and an alien sun 

Glared from the north, 

And there stood on high, 

Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton ! 1 . . . 

It was by the stream 

Of the castled Maine, 

One autumn eve, in the Teuton's land, 

That I dreamed this dream 

Of the time and reign 

Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 

1 " It was hut natural that these portentous appearances should thus be 
exhibited on this occasion, for they were the heralds of a very great calamity 
that befell the Connacians in this year; namely, the death of Cahal of the 
Red Hand, son of Torlogh Mor of the Wine, and King of Connaught, a 
prince of most amiable qualities, and into whose heart God had infused more 
piety and goodness than into the hearts of any of his contemporaries." - 
Annals of the Four Masters, A.D. 1214. 



My path lay towards the Mourne again ; 
But I stopped to rest by the hillside 
That glanced adown o'er the sunken glen, 
Which the saw-and-water-mills hide, 
Which now, as then, 
The saw-and-water-mills hide. 

And there, as I lay reclined on the hill, 

Like a man made by sudden qualm ill, (51) 

I heard the water in the water-mill, 

And I saw the saw in the saw-mill. 

As I thus lay still, 

I saw the saw in the saw-mill. 

The saw, the breeze, and the humming bees 

Lulled me into a dreamy reverie, 

Till the objects round me, hills, mills, trees, 

Seemed grown alive all and every ; 

By slow degrees 

Took life, as it were, all and every ! 

Anon the sound of the waters grew 

To a mournful ditty, 

And the song of the tree that the saw sawed through 

Disturbed my spirit with pity, 

Began to subdue 

My spirit with tenderest pity ! 

u O wanderer ! the hour that brings thee back 
Is of all meet hours the meetcst. 


Thou now, in sooth, art on the track, 
Art nigher to home than thou weetest ; 
Thou hast thought time slack, 
But his flight has been of the fleetest ! 

For thee it is that I dree such pain 
As, when wounded, even a plank will ; 
My bosom is pierced, is rent in twain, 
That thine may ever bide tranquil, 
May ever remain 
Henceforward, untroubled and tranquil. 

In a few days more, most lonely one ! 

Shall I, as a narrow ark, veil 

Thine eyes from the glare of the world and sun, 

'Mong the urns in yonder dark vale, 

In the cold and dun 

Recesses of yonder dark vale ! 

For this grieve not ! Thou knowest what thanks 

The weary-souled and the meek owe 

To Death ! " . . . I awoke, and heard four planks 

Fall down with a saddening echo. 

I heard four planks 

Fall down with a hollow echo. 



'Tis idle ! we exhaust and squander 

The glittering mine of thought in vain; 

All-baffled reason cannot wander 

Beyond her chain. 

The flood of life runs dark ; dark clouds 

Make lampless night around its shore : 

The dead, where are they ? In their shrouds ! 

Man knows no more. 

Evoke the ancient and the past; 
Will one illumining star arise ? 
Or must the film, from first to last, 
O'erspread thine eyes? 
When life, love, glory, beauty, wither, 
Will wisdom's page, or science' chart, 
Map out for thee the region whither 
Their shades depart ? 

Supposes! thou the wondrous powers 

To high imagination given, 

Pale types of what shall yet be ours, 

When earth is heaven ? 

When this decaying shell is cold, 

Ah, sayest thou the soul shall climb 

That magic mount she trod of old, 

Ere childhood's time ? 

And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled, 
Thrill once again to glory's name ? 


And shall the conquering love that filled 

All earth with flame, 

Reborn, revived, renewed, immortal, 

Resume his reign in prouder might, 

A sun beyond the ebon portal 

Of death and night ? 

No more, no more ! . . . With aching brow, 

And restless heart, and burning brain, 

We ask the when, the where, the how, 

And ask in vain. 

And all philosophy, all faith, 

All earthly, all celestial lore, 

Have but one voice, which only saith : 

Endure, adore. 


Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river 
That sweeps along to the mighty sea ; 
God will inspire me while I deliver 
My soul of thee ! 

Tell thou the world, when mv bones lie whitening: 

' O 

Amid the last homes of youth and eld, 

That once there was one whose veins ran lightning 

No eye beheld. 

Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, 
How shone for him, through his ^nef and gloom, 
No star of all heaven sends to light our 
Path to the tomb. 


Roll on, my song, and to after ages 

Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, 

He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages, 

The way to live. 

And tell how trampled, derided, hated, 
And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, 
He fled for shelter to God, who mated 
His soul with song ; 

With song which alway, sublime or vapid, 
Flowed like a rill in the morning-beam, 
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid : 
A mountain stream. 

Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long 
To herd with demons from hell beneath, 
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long 
For even death. 

Go on to tell how with genius wasted, 
Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love, 
With spirit shipwrecked, and young hope blasted, 
He still, still strove, 

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others, 
(And some whose hands should have wrought for him, 
If children live not for sires and mothers,) 
His mind grew dim ; 

And he fell far through that pit abysmal, 
The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, 
And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal 
Stock of returns j 


But yet redeemed it in days of darkness, 
And shapes and signs of the final wrath, 
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, 
Stood on his path. 

And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, 
And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, 
He bides in calmness the silent morrow 
That no ray lights. 

And lives he still, then ? Yes ! Old and hoary 
At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, 
He lives, enduring what future story- 
Will never know. 

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, 
Deep in your bosoms : there let him dwell ! 
He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble 
Here, and in hell. 

Notes by the Editor 

NOTE I, page 115. If our dear friend, Master Edmund 
Spenser, had had his way in the south of Ireland, we should 
hardly have occasion to be thankful for a contemporary poet 
in the north, and his Roisin Dulb. In A View of the 
Present State, Spenser puts in the mouth of Irenaeus a plea 
for the extermination of the bards, already greatly injured 
by the penal statutes under Elizabeth. " I have caused divers 
of them to be translated unto me that I might understand 
them, and surely they savored of sweet wit and good inven- 
tion . . . sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their own 
natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto 
them. . . . But they seldom use to choose unto them- 
selves the doings of good men for the ornaments of their 
poems ; but whomsoever they find to be most licentious of 
lite, most bold and lawless in his doings, most dangerous and 
desperate in all parts of disobedience and rebellious disposition, 
him they set up and glorify in their rhymes, him they praise 
to the people, and to young men, make an example to fol- 
low." Had they but sung Gloriana ! 

2, p. 128. The illustrious Colonel Owen Roe O'Neill, 
nephew of the Earl of Tyrone, had, like most Irish exiles to 
Spain, seen service in Flanders. He returned home in 1642, 
and headed the revolt in Ulster. The royalist war was crushed 
by Cromwell, but O'Neill was already dead ( 1648). 

3, p. 121;. Dunogh Mac Con-Mara (a name sometimes 
incorrectly given as Macnamara), a native of County Water- 
ford, wrote this very lovely Ivnc in Gaelic, while he \\.is keep- 

344 NOTES 

ing a boys' school in Hamburg. He was a great traveller, 
and had a most adventurous life. He was born in 1738, and 
dying in 1814, was buried at home. 

4, p. 131. The peculiarly eighteenth-century Irish note 
of this characteristic poem is reason enough for its inclusion. 
The "marble" brow, the grave genealogical details, and 
the unavoidable reference to Helen of Troy, are most hedge- 
schoolmasterly touches. 

5, p. 135. Neillidhe Bhan is an anonymous production. 
Its vehemence and incoherence stamp it as genuinely felt, as 
well as genuinely conceived. The lover boasts, in the first 
stanza, how gladly he would "breast the Shannon's waters" 
to reach the North, and in the third mentions " the flooding 
Shannon " as the reason of his absence ! 

6, p. 137. This O'Hussey is an undiscovered genius. 
In the Ode for Cuconnaught in the North with Hugh (his 
same chief, Hugh Maguire) occur some magnificent apostro- 
phes, which should have adorned Lyra Celtica : 

"Thou joy, thou promise, thou sprightly salmon ! 
Thou beauteous azure ocean-wave ! 
Thou pourer of panic into the breasts of heroes ! " 

The close of the avran in the poem translated by Mangan 
will appeal to every reader, in its concentrated passion. 

7, p. 141. "No Irish pilgrim," says a sympathetic 
writer, "ascends the Janiculum without thinking of Mangan, 
and mentally repeating, 'O Woman of the Piercing Wail.' ' 
The celebrated poem has an intense monotony, comparable to 
Homer's catalogue, in its imagination of scenes and circum- 
stances which might have comforted by corroboration the 
Lady Nuala O'Donnell, and brought to her side a host of 
fellow-mourners. From this very Celtic circumstance it draws 
much of its powerful effect. It was included, long ago, in 
Gavan Duffy's Ba/IaJ Poetry of Ireland (the best anthology 
of the sort extant), and deeply impressed one of the finest of 

NOTES 345 

English critics. Concerning the book, Lord Jeffrey wrote to 
Mrs. Empson : "There are some most pathetic and many 
most spirited pieces, and all, with scarcely an exception, so 
entirely national. Do get the book and read it. I am most 
struck with Soggartb Aroon, after the first two stanzas, and 
a long, racy, authentic-sounding dirge for the Tyrconnell 

8, p. i 50. Mangan made this translation in the early 
part of 1847. "I have not been able," he says, "to dis- 
cover the name of the author." There seems to be a great 
deal of Mangan in it, as it stands. In general character, 
however, it reminds one both of Neillidhe Bhan (Ellen Bawn) 
and the last three stanzas of the second part ot The Coolun, 
a ballad put into enchanting English by Sir Samuel Fergu- 

"O had you seen the coolun 
Walking down by the cuckoo's street ! " 

g, p. 152. Eoghan O'Sullivan the Red, an interesting 
Gaelic poet, cousin to Gaolach (Timothy) O'Sullivan, more 
celebrated than himself, died in 1784. 

10, p. 156. " Dathi, nephew to Niall by his brother 
Fiachra, was the last pagan king of Ireland, and reigned 
twenty-three years. His proper name was Fearadhach ; but 
he was surnamed Dathi, from the rapidity with which he 
used to put on his armor : ' Daithcadh,' in the Irish lan- 
guage, signifying swiftness. He pillaged Gaul and carried 
his arms even to the Alps, where he was suddenly struck 
dead bv a thunderbolt from heaven, thus expiating his sacri- 
legious cruelty to Parmenius, a man highly distinguished for 
sanctity, A.D. 428, A.M. 5627." From Ciimbreinis Evcr- 
sus, seu Potius Hiitoricu Fides in Rebus Hibfrnicis Giraltlo 

Cambrensi Abrogata, by Gratianus Lucius (John Lynch), 


i i, p. 162. Sarsficld commanded a division of the loval 

346 NOTES 

Irish forces, nominally under King James the Second, at the 
battle of Boyne Water, 1688. "Change kings," he said 
in the bitter moment of his defeat, "and let us fight it over." 
He went into exile with the other Irish nobles and gentry, 
(the first of the never-forgotten "Wild Geese" of popular 
ballads), entered the service of France, and closed a most 
chivalrous career by a death on the battlefield of Landen 
(1693), where Luxembourg was victorious over the Allies. 
This most remarkable of the Farewells to the Earl, at the 
time of his going over sea, is full of unique and vehement 
expressions, which will repay the study of any humanist. 

12, p. 166. "Donegal Castle," says Thomas D'Arcy 
M'Gee, "the chief seat of the princely family of the 
O'Donnells, stands now in ruins, in the centre of the village 
of the same name, at the head of Donegal Bay. It was 
"built in the fifteenth century, and shows, even in its decay, 
royal proportions." It now belongs to the Lord Arran. 
Hugh the Red O'Donnell, Earl of Tyrconnell, fired it 
before leaving for Spain, A.D. 1607, lest it should be defiled 
by English occupation. The original poem must have been 
composed by some one perfectly familiar with the castle 
interior, prior to the Eli/.abethan wars, but the bard's name 
has not come down to us. He may even be the same to 
whom we owe Roisin Dubb. 

'3 P- '73- Kathaleen Ny-Houlaban and all the poems 
which follow, in this division, except the Dirge for O' Sulli- 
van Beare, are relics of the Jacobite insurrections, chiefly of 
the immortal '45. "The King's son " is, of course, Prince 
Charles Edward. "The Irish Jacobites claimed the Stuarts 
as of the Milesian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus." 
The popular lyrics of that dav, which were written in Ire- 
land, in the English tongue, have the tang of novelty and 
\vildness, but lack, in many instances, the odd exquisite ten- 
derness of Sbule Ar'j'jn and 'j'hc KlackhiiJ. As in Scotland, 
suinc of the sweetest of the Jacobite lyrics date from a jvn- 

NOTES 347 

eration or more after the event ; so nothing written under 
the Georges, who hated "boets," is so good an English 
poem out of Ireland as its modern successors : Callanan's spir- 
ited Avenger, or The Wi/ii Geese, and a few other lyrics of 
Katharine Tynan (Mrs. Hinkson). The Gaelic compositions 
of the loyalists were very much more numerous, and of superior 
quality. Mangan translated a great many, among which I have 
endeavored to choose the best. They cannot for a moment, 
however, be compared to the simpler, briefer songs floating con- 
temporaneously about the Highlands of Scotland. Mr. Ed- 
ward Hayes, in the introduction to his collected Ballads of Ire- 
land, remarks : " The poets of the last century looked forward 
more to a religious than to a political deliverer, whence their 
effusions were more dynastic than national, more Jacobite 
than Irish. When they sang of Ireland, it was in connec- 
tion with the fallen dynasty. They longed for the union of 
Una and Donald, in other words, Ireland and the Stuart. 
They addressed their country as a beloved female, to disguise 
the object of their affection. Sometimes it was Sabia from 
Brian Bora's daughter of that name ; sometimes it was 
Sheela Ni Guira, or Cecilia O'Gara ; Maureen Ni Colle- 
nan, Kathleen Nv Houlahan, Rosecn Dhuv ; more fre- 
quently Granu Weal, or Grace O'Malley, from a princess of 
Connaught who rendered herself famous by her exploits and 
adventures. The poet beheld his beloved in a vision, and 
wandering in remote places, bewailed the suffering of his 
country. He rests himself beneath the shade of forest trees, 
and .seeks refuge from his thoughts in calm repose. There 
appears to his rapt fancy one of those beautiful creatures we 
have named. Language is not sufficiently copious to de- 
scribe all her charms. He addresses her, and asks her if she 
be one of the fair divinities of old, or an angel from heaven 
to brighten his pathway through life and restore peace to his 
afflicted country. She replies that she is Erin of the Sorrows, 
oiue a queen, but now a slave. Alter she enumerates all the 

348 NOTES 

wrongs and iniquities which she is enduring, she prophesies 
the dawn of a brighter day, when her exiled lord shall be 
restored to his rightful inheritance. This was the style 
adopted by most of" the Jacobite poets of the last century, to 
express the sufferings of their country and their hope of 
deliverance from oppression. We question if imagination 
could originate a style of song more pathetic in its allusions 
or more powerful in its results." 

Not every one will agree with Mr. Hayes' estimate. 
The allegorical style surely seems to readers of to-day a most 
mistaken, far-fetched, and ineffective device. It led to 
indescribable sameness and conventionality, exactly what 
was to be expected of the curious brood of pedants who 
gave Ireland her Delia Cruscan eighteenth-century literature. 
Says Mrs. Hinkson very neatly, in her preface to Irish Love 
Songs: "Some of these were laborers, some peddlers, some 
hedge-schoolmasters, all alike touched with genius, wit, 
fire, and learning (for it was a time when the Irish peasant 
had the dead languages at his fingers' ends) ; all alike 
scamps, in a simple and virtuous age, and adding to their 
scampishness a Voltairean spirit much out of its due time 
and place." Scotland had also her lesser dash of pseudo- 
classicism, which went far towards ruining some of her 
invaluable Prince Charlie songs. Of " the lad that I'll 
gang wi'," the romantic lad with " phillabeg aboon the 
knee," we are told in almost the next breath that "you'd 
tak him for the god o' war." In Egan O'Rahilly's Vision, 
rendered bv Mangan, who reported only what he found, 
the distressed virgin, the Brightest of the Bright, ha.-; crystals 
tor eyes, a mirror for a bosom, crimson glories for cheeks ; 
and she looked, as was inevitable, like "a daughter of the 
Celestial Powers." There is no " highfalutin " of this sort 
in Kat baleen Ny-Hou/aban. The ballads under that name 
are almost a> good as the group entitled AV.f//; Dubb, which 
are a centurv and a half earlier. From John Mitchel we 

NOTES 349 

receive an explanatory passage regarding them, and Man- 
gan's felicitous handling of them. "In these translations, 
as well as those from the German, Mangan did not assume 
to be literal in words and phrases. Nor, indeed, in gen- 
eral, was there any uniform unvarying version of the original 
poems, to which he could be literal, because they lived, for 
the most part, only in the memories of the illiterate peas- 
antry ; and Gaelic scholars, in their researches for authentic 
originals, usually found three or four different ballads, on the 
same subject and under the same name, having some lines 
and verses identical, but varying in the arrangement ; always, 
however, agreeing in cadence and rhythm, in general scope 
and spirit. To this scope and spirit he was always faithful." 
Here is a second Katbahen, from our translator's pen, in 
The Poets and Poetry of Munster : 

In vain, in vain we turn to Spain : she heeds us not, 
Yet may we still, by strength of will, amend our lot ; 
O yes ! our foe shall yet lie low ; our swords are drawn 
For her, our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain. 

Yield not to fear : the time is near. With sword in hand 
We soon will chase the Saxon race far from our land. 
What glory then to stand as men on field and bawn 
And see, all sheen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain ! 

How tossed, how lost, with hopes all crossed we long have been ! 
Our gold is gone ; gear have we none, as all have seen. 
But ships shall brave the ocean wave, and morn shall dawn 
On Eire green, on Caitilin Ny Uallachain ! 

Let none believe this lovely Eve outworn or old ; 

Fair is her form, her blood is warm, her heart is bold. 

Tho' strangers long have wrought her wrong, she will not fawn, 

Will not prove mean, our Caitilin Ni Uallachain ! 

Her stately air, her flowing hair, her eyes that far 
Pierce thro' the gloom of Banba's doom, each likr :\ star; 
Her songful voice that makes rejoice hearts grief hath gnawn, 
Prove her our queen, our Caifilin Ni Uallachain ! 

350 NOTES 

We will not bear the chains we wear, not bear them long ! 
We seem bereaven, but mighty heaven will make us strong : 
The God who led thro' Ocean Red all Israel on, 
Will aid our queen, our Caitilin Ni Uallachain ! 

A word as to Ny-Houlahan. Ny " is the correct Gaelic 
substitute, in a female name, for the tribal " Mac " or " O." 
As Mr. Conor MacSvveeny reminds his countrywomen : "A 
lady who writes ' O ' or ' Mac ' to her name calls herself 
'son' instead of 'daughter.' What should we say of a 
Hebrew lady who would write herself ' Esther, son of 
Judah ? ' I therefore advise every Irish lady to substitute 
' Ni ' (pronounced 'Nee') for ' O ' or 'Mac.' ... In 
Irish we never use ' O ' or ' Mac ' with a woman's name ; 
and why must it be done in English ? " 

Among the love-names for Ireland just quoted from Hayes' 
Ballads are several which have been from the beginning asso- 
ciated with the most beautiful wild old airs : notably Moirin 
Ni Cbuillionain (Little Mary Cullenan) and Sighile Ni Gar a 
(Celia O'Gara). To the second version of Roisin, quoted 
in the introduction to this book, " Since last night's star," 
etc., belongs also a strangely lovely air in A minor, full of 
ruling sixteenth notes, which may be found, unharmonized, 
in The Putts and Puetry of Munster. " The Silk o' the 
Kine," one of the most touching phrases on the lips of the 
Irish of bvgone rebellion, has been exquisitely celebrated by 
Mr. Aubrey de Vere. 

" The silk o' the kine shall rest at last : 

What drove her forth but the dragon-fly ? 
In the golden vale she shall fed full fast, 

With her mild gold horn, and her slow dark eye." 

There is no " genuine " Irish Jacobite poetry more quiet, 
tender, and convincing than that. 

14, p. 174. William Heffernan, surnamed Dall, or the 
Blind, ot Shronehill, County Tipperary, wrote this poem just 

NOTES 351 

before Culloden. The Song of Gladness, which follows Wel- 
come to the Prince, has its justification in the extraordinary 
energy of the close. 

15, p. 179. "Shieling," defined as a poor cabin or 
shelter for a shepherd or fisher, is familiar to ballad-lovers, 
and occurs contemporaneously with Lochiel's muster of the 
Camerons : 

"Then up the wild Glennevis, 

And down by Lochy's side, 
Young Donald left his shieling, 
And Malcolm left his bride." 

1 6, p. 182. Geoffrey Keating, born in 1570, died in 

17, p. I 84. " The words to this spirited air are the pro- 
duction of a violent Jacobite. By leathering away with the 
wattle, he implies his determination to decide political differ- 
ences by an appeal to physical force. The wattle was a 
stout cudgel or ailpin" Cotter has the courage to be antiqua- 
rian and national in his pretty poem ; and yet he cannot 
leave out the She 

"that launched a thousand ships, 
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium." 

1 8, p. i go. Muircheartach Oge, of the Barony of 
Beara, called in English Murtagh, or Mortimer, The 
Young O'Sullivan, was a disaffected chieftain descended 
from Donal of the Ships, who occupied himself ten years 
after Culloden in raising troops (the celebrated Wild Geese) 
for France, the ally of the Stuarts against England. He had 
served with distinction at Fontenoy, and was received with 
open arms by the people of the .south, on his return to recruit 
for the French cause. His story, a strange, grimly romantic 
one, was cut short by his betrayal and assassination in 17^6. 
This is the substance of Mangan's rune, too long for incor- 
poration. The Gaelic manuscript of the poem was found in 

352 NOTES 

Castletown about 1825 by Jeremiah Joseph Callanan, who 
made a close translation of it. Compare with Mangan's 
more imaginative passage (in the last stanza but one) : 

" Dear head of my darling ! 
How gory and pale 
These aged eyes see thee 
High-spiked on the jail ! 
That cheek in the summer sun 
Ne'er shall grow warm, 
Nor that eye e'er catch light 
But the flash of the storm." 

The caoine is a fine specimen of the terrible Hebraic invec- 
tive of the race ; the original is supposed to be the composi- 
tion of The O'Sullivan's old nurse, upon whose lips the 
lament is placed. The passages in parentheses may be taken 
to be the customary chorus of women, as at a " wake," re- 
peating, with swayings of their bodies, the melancholy word 
and tone of the keener. Mangan has used his favorite re- 
frain here with ghastly effect. The penultimate stanza, the 
weak one among the nine, seems to have had no warrant in 
the original, as it is not in the Callanan transcription. 

19, p. 199. Something in the impression of heard music 
which this lyric leaves, reminds one of Wordsworth's High- 
land Reaper. It may be worth while to append Rtickert's 
poem, for the pleasure of comparison. Which is lovelier, it 
would take Apollo, expert among Sicilian reeds, to decide. 


Ich weis>s der Lieder viele 

Und singe was ihr liebt. 

Das ist wohl gut zum spiele, 

Weil Wechzel Freude giebt ; 

Doch hatte Lieb' und Friede 

Genug an einem Liede, 

Und fragtc nicht, wo's hundert giebt. 

NOTES 353 

Jiingst sah ich einen Hirten 

Im stillen Wiesenthal, 

Wo klare Bachlein irrten 

Am hellcn Sonnenstrahl. 

Er lag am schatt'gen Baume, 

Und blies als wie im Traume 

Ein Lied auf einem Blattlein schmal. 

Das Lied, es mochte steigen 
Nur wcnig Ton, hinauf, 
Dann musst' es hin sich neigen 
Und nahm denselben Lauf. 
Es freut' ihn immer vvieder ; 
Gern hatt ich meinc Lieder, 
Gcboten all dafiir zum Rauf. 

Er blies sein Lied, und liess es, 

Und sah sich um in Hag, 

Hub wieder an und blies es, 

Ich schaute wie er lag : 

Er sah bei seinem Blasen 

Die stillen Lammlein grasen, 

Und langsam fliehn der Sommertag. 

20, p. zii. "Battle droops his clotted wing": a line 
worthy of Keats. 

21, p. 215. This poem of Herder's is founded on a 
fragment of folk-lore very general in Europe, and at its best, 
perhaps, in the wonderful Breton ballad of St'igtit'Hr Nann. 
All English readers will recall it as nearlv identical with 
Lord Ronald my So/i, although this has no direct mention of 
supcrnatual interference, nor is its "true love " a fav. 

22, p. 220. There is no line-repetition in Werin die 
Rosen bluhen. It ends : 

Ewig nun genesen, 
Wirst du neu rrgliihn 
Wirst ein himmlich We 
Wenn die Rosen bluhn. 

354 NOTES 

23, p. 220. 


Wie wenn ein Strom, ben lange 
Ein Winter eingezwangt, 
Im Lenzhauch mit Gesange 
Verjiingt die Fesseln sprengt ; 

Wie wenn nach Jahr und Tagen 
Ein Baum, einst bliithenreich, 
Fangt Bliithen an zu tragen 
Den alten ganzlich gleich ; 


Wie wenn ein Wein, verschlossen 
Im Fasse Jahrc lang, 
Kommt wieder frisch geflossen, 
Ein dustender Gesang ; 

Wie wenn auf einmal wieder 
Ein rief'ger Dom ertont, 
Dem Ohr, an Vogellieder, 
Seit Jahren nur gewohnt, 

Schien mir's, ist mir's geworden, 
Als jiingst nach Jahren lang, 
Du Haupst von Liederorden ! 
Frisch tonte dein Gesang. 

24, p. 221. Emerson's 

"Then will yet my Mother yield 
A pillow in her greenest field, 
Nor the June daisies scorn to cover 
The clay of their departed lover," 

is in the same key as these stanzas of Kcrncr's S angers 7 1 rost. 
Mangan has somehow missed the simplicity of the ending : 

"Blumen, Hain, und Ane, 
Stern und Mondcnlicht, 
Die ich sang ! vcrgesscn 
Ihrcs Sangers nicht." 

NOTES 355 

25, p. 226. The Ride Around the Parapet is placed as 
the first of a group of five which are called translations, for 
mere convention's sake. They are, rather, voluntaries of an 
extraordinary sort on German themes ; elaborate, jocose em- 
broideries on provided cloth-of-frieze. The Lady Eleanora 
von Alleyne is a very magnificent presentation, circa I 840, 
of the New Woman. Compare 

" Nun warte bis ein andrer kommt wieder, der es kann, 

Das Fraulein Kunigunde von Kynast ! 

Ich habe schon Weib und Kinder, und werde nicht dein Mann, 
Das Fraulein Kunigunde ! " 

with Mangan's extremely pointed and espiegle enlargement of 

" Mayest bide until they come, O stately Lady Eleanor, 

O Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

Mayest bide until they come, O stately Lady Eleanor ! 
And thou and they may marry ; but for me, I must not tarry : 
I have won a wife already out of Spain, 

Virgin Lady Eleanora, 
Virgin Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! " 

And again, the pleasing specifications about the forfeit, at 
the close, are hardly to be traced to the plain statement : 

" Muss er mit Geld sich losen wenn er nicht kiisst die Braut, 
Das Fraulein Kunigunde ! " 

Besides, the whole much-extended poem is crowded 
throughout with enriching detail of all kinds, and every new 
stroke tells. " It is a very fine ballad," Rikkert might say, 
" by my friend Mangan." 

26, p. 234. 



Kennt ihr das schonc Eiland 
Weit draussen im Meer so wujt, 
Wo dcr Morgenrothe Reigen, 
Und dcr Sonnen Ausgang ist ? 

356 NOTES 

O dahin mocht ich ziehen 
Dahin steht mir mcin Sinn ! 
Dahin wcr kann mich fiihren ? 
Wer weiss den Weg dahin ? 

27, p. 235. August Kopisch : Des Kleinen Volkes 

28, p. 238. Enough has been said of this fantasia in the 
Introduction, as also of Riickert's beautiful ghazel which 
follows it. 

29, p. 244. For 

" Ambi nemici sono, ambi fu servi," 

this is certainly a clouded rendition. 

30, p. 248. This translation of the eternally-translated 
Dies Irae occurs in Mangan's rendering of Das Nordlicht von 

31, p. 253. The Karamanian Exile. See the note on 
Joseph Brenan. 

32, p. 260. Relic of Prince Bayazeed. The second 
line is almost too reminiscential of Keats' dying saying: " I 
feel the flowers growing over me." The third and fourth 
refer to a very ancient custom mentioned by most Oriental 
poets : the bell rung for the starting of the caravan, and the 
cry raised of Ar Rabil, Ar Rahil ! (Depart, Depart). 

33, p. 260. A late corroboration of the known opinion 
of dear old Roger Ascham, as also of Dr. Johnson. 

34, p. 268. Says Thomas Fuller : " Keep a common- 
place book : for he that with Bias carries all his learning about 
him in his head, will utterly he beggared and bankrupt, it a vio- 
lent disease, like a merciless thief, should rob and strip him." 

35, p. 270. In this ghazel, the second line and the line 
next to the last foreshadow Arnold's great and well-known 
two : 

" Alone the sun arises, and alone 
Spring the great streams." 

NOTES 357 

36, p. 277. "Dree," to endure, to undergo; a word 
set down in the dictionaries as "Scotch or obsolete," but in 
common use with Mangan and other Irish poets, and with 
most people in Ireland, to this day. 

37, p. 278. The recurrent sounds of a, a, a, a, in this 
concluding stanza of a splendid poem, are atrocious, and show 
an almost inconceivable carelessness on the part of their author. 
They are hardly outdone by that musical passage in How 
we brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix : 

" Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit ! " 

38, p. 286. Jealousy is very close akin to Victor Hugo's 
La Voile ; somewhat less so to Mr. Charles De Kay's pow- 
erful Ulf in Ireland. 

39, p. 289. The Time of the Barmecides. Rejected 
readings : 

Line I, <( Mine eyes are dimmed, my hair is gray." 

Line 15, "And a barb as fiery as any I know." 

Lines 17, 19, 27, 29, "'Twas a long, long time back, long ago." 

Line 33, " Whose armor glowed like gold." 

Mangan was always an admirable reviser. 

40, p. 297. This and the following poem were written 
some time before the first great Irish famine (1847) drove 
countless immigrants to America. A number of Mangan's 
exhortations were proved prophetic by the event, in this as 
in other matters. 

41, p. 304. First printed in The Irish Tribune, in 
1848, hence named by the author The Tribune's H^ run for 

42, p. 309. A couple of stanzas from a poem by John Ed- 
mund Reade are worth printing in connection with Pompeii. 

" O thou Vesuvius ! that risest there, 
Image of drear eternity, alone 
Seated in thy own silent fields of air; 
Titan, whose chainless struggles have but shown 

358 NOTES 

The annihilating powers are still thine own, 

Parent of lightnings, and the tempest's shroud, 

Crowning, or round thy giant shoulders thrown 

In majesty of shadow, ere the cloud 

Break on the nether world in fulmined wrath avowed. 

Grave of dead cities thou ! thy heart is fire, 

Thy pulse is earthquake ; from thy breast are rolled 

The flames in which shall penal earth expire ; 

Thy robes are of the lava's burning fold, 

Thine armed hand the thunderbolt doth hold, 

Thy voice is as the trump that calls to doom ; 

Creator and destroyer ! who hath told 

What world of life lies buried in thy womb, 

What mightiest wrecks are sunk in thy absorbing tomb ?" 

This is the very twin of Mangan's poem, and both echo 
Byron to the life. 

43, p. 310. The fourth line in the fifth verse of Pompeii 
seemed to have suffered from the printers. There are but 
two possible readings ; that given in the text, and one only less 
likely : 

"Like blasted wrecks, bestrew that mortar plain." 

44, p. 311. From the German of "Selber" ! 

45> P- 3 '3- From "Cascagni," forsooth. Rejected read- 
ings (from a shorter version) : 

Line I, "The life of life is gone and over." 
Lines 37, 38, "Go thou, exulting in thy guilt, 

And weave thy wanton web anew." 

And the last stanza : 

" But where shall I find rest ? Alas, 
When first the winter wind shall wave 
The pale wildrlower, the long dark grass, 
Above mine unremembered grave ! " 

This poem has borne two other titles : To Frances, and The 
Last Reproach. Its author was apparently also under the 

NOTES 359 

Shakespearean shadow in those days. " Less in anger than in 
sorrow " is popularly supposed to spring from Hamlet, Act I., 
Scene v., and 

' ' smile and smile 
Yet be all dark and false within," 

has possibly been heard of before, in the second scene of the 
same act. 

46, p. 318. Written in 1832, in Mangan's twenty-ninth 
year. Entitled variously by him The Dying Enthusiast, The 
Dying Enthusiast to his Friend, The Dying Enthusiast to bis 

47, p. 319. This touching poem, addressed to a friend 
who had not then attained his majority, marks for us one of 
Clarence Mangan's moods of bitter awakening and self- 
reproach, moods often renewed, often outworn, as years 
passed. He revered Brenan, not without reason. Born in 
Cork, in 1828, "all of Shelley's soul" got fitly and 
promptly into the National Movement twenty years later, 
and suffered for it in Kilmainham Jail. In the October of 
i 849, Brenan went to New York, and did some journalistic 
work there ; his marriage followed, with a sister of his old 
colleague, John Savage, and presently he moved to New 
Orleans, attaching himself first to the staff of The New 
Orleans Delta, then becoming editor of The New Orleans 
Times. He died in May of 1857, at Shelley's own early 
age. Joseph Brenan' s verses have never been collected, but 
they have singular beauty ; one of them, a pajan for Char- 
lotte Corday, is sometimes met with in the anthologies. It 
is to him, in a measure, that we Americans owe one of our 
few fine sectional songs : Maryland, my Mary/ana 1 . The 
following extract is copied from Fifty Years among Authors, 
Books, and Publishers, by Derby, New York, 1884: " James 
Ryder Randall, who wrote Maryland, my Maryland, when 
a voung man was a schoolmaster in Louisiana, but was born 

360 NOTES 

in Baltimore, Maryland. . . . The editor of The New 
Orleans Delta, who encouraged young Randall's efforts at 
poetry, gave him a volume of the poems of James Clarence 
Mangan, and the weird melodies and wasted life and melan- 
choly death of the unfortunate Irish poet made an indelible 
impression on his mind. He was especially struck with the 
rhythm of one poem, purporting to be translated from the 
Ottoman, and entitled The Karamanian Exile. One day, 
while the melody of The Karajnanian Exile was running 
through his brain, Mr. Randall rode to the Mississippi River, 
seven miles distant, to get his mail. Among it was a copy 
of the Delta containing an account of the passage of the 
Massachusetts troops through Baltimore, and of the riot which 
occurred there, which he read with the deepest interest. 
Agitated by the thrilling news, indignant at what he consid- 
ered an outrage on his native city, and anxious about relatives 
and friends, there was no sleep for Randall that night. For 
some unaccountable reason, as he kept thinking of these events 
in Baltimore, the stirring melody of The Karamanian Exile 
seemed to run through his head ; so much so, that he appeared 
possessed with its spirit, and in a moment the whole scheme 
of his Maryland, my Maryland was formed in his brain. He 
sat down at his desk, and in less than an hour the poem was 
completed. Next day he read it to his scholars, the most of 
whom were Creoles, and it fired them to such a degree of 
enthusiasm that he decided to send it to the Delta for publi- 
cation. Its success was electrical." 

The "book of Mangan's poems" mentioned as given to 
Mr. Randall must have been Mitchcl's edition, printed just 
before Brenan's death. Up to that very time, Tb: Kara- 
manian Exile would have been inaccessible, except in news- 
paper or manuscript form. The author of Maryland, m\ 
Maryland is still living. 

48, p. 321. " From the Irish." 

49, p. 326. Another reading (September, 1835): 

NOTES 361 

"Spirit of wordless Love, that in the lone 
Bowers of the poet's museful soul doth weave 
Tissues of thought, hued like the robes of eve 
Ere the last glories of the sun have shone ! 
How soon, almost before our hearts have known 
The change, above the ruins of thy throne, 
Whose trampled beauty we would fain retrieve 
By all earth's thrones beside, we stand and grieve ! 
We weep not, for the world's bleak breath hath bound 
In triple ice the fountains of our tears ; 
But ever-mourning Memory thenceforth rears 
Her altars upon desecrated ground, 
And always, with a low despairful sound, 
Heavily tolls the bell of all our years. ' ' 

The altered version (1841) is much superior to this one; 
but neither sonnet has the octette perfect in form, as the sixth, 
seventh, and eighth lines seem to have changed places. It is 
singular that Mangan's seeing eye (a " regardful " eye, as he 
might have preferred to call it) allowed the irregularity to 
pass uncorrected. 

50, p. 332. There is a truly Slavic gloom about this 
too intense little poem. 

5 1 ' P- 337- The " man m ade by sudden qualm ill" is 
too bad ! We have reason to fear, too, that it was inten- 
tional. It is not the only grotesque touch in a most original 

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